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17 





THE YAKABOO. 



ALONE IN THE 
CARIBBEAN 

Being the Yarn of a Cruise 
in the Lesser Antilles in the 
Sailing Canoe "Yakaboo" 

FREDERIC A. FENCER 

ILLUSTRATED 




NEW YORK 
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



.F33 



COPYRIGHT, 191 7, 
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 




DEC 12 1917 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 



Dci.A47H4 ( Jc3 



V 



TO 

MY MOTHER 

AND THE MEMORY OF 

MY FATHER 



Item — I order that my executors purchase a 
large stone, the best that they can find, and place 
it upon my grave, and that they write round the 
edge of it these words: — "Here lies the honourable 
Chevalier Diego Mendez, who rendered great 
services to the royal crown of Spain, in the dis- 
covery and conquest of the Indies, in company 
with the discoverer of them, the Admiral Don 
Christopher Columbus, of glorious memory, and 
afterwards rendered other great services by him- 
self, with his own ships, and at his own cost. 
He died. . . . He asks of your charity a Pater- 
noster and an Ave Maria." 

Item — In the middle of the said stone let there 
be the representation of a canoe, which is a hol- 
lowed tree, such as the Indians use for navigation; 
for in such a vessel did I cross three hundred 
leagues of sea; and let them engrave above it 
this word: "CANOA." 

From the will of Diego Mendez, drawn up June igth, 
I53& 



PREFACE 

TO most of us the West Indies comprise Cuba, Ja- 
maica, Haiti or San Domingo (commonly thought 
to be two separate islands) , Porto Rico and the smaller 
islands of the Bahamas, the Bermudas and Barbados, 
somewhere adrift off the Florida coast like a second 
Sargasso Sea. The lower Caribbees seem as mythical 
as the lost Atlantis itself. I feel that I shall have ac- 
complished much if by means of a simple explanation 
and the use of a chart I can set the reader right for all 
time. 

In general the West Indies include the Bahamas 
(a group of low-lying coral cays just across the Gulf 
Stream where it sweeps northward past the east coast 
of Florida) but more particularly they are those islands 
which stretch to the eastward fom Yucatan to just be- 
yond Porto Rico where they take a southward trend 
forming an almost perfect arc from the Virgins to 
Trinidad which is in reality the northeast corner of 
South America. Thus they bound the Caribbean Sea, 
on the north and east, which in the old days was also 
called the Northern Ocean in contradistinction to the 
Southern Ocean or Pacific which Balboa first saw di- 
rectly to the south from the Isthmus of Panama. The 
large islands, Jamaica, Cuba, San Domingo and Porto 
Rico are known as the Greater Antilles while the small- 
er islands which take up the march to Trinidad are 
known as the Lesser Antilles. Of the Lesser Antilles, 

ix 



x PREFACE 

the Virgins, Anguilla, St. Martin, Barbuda, Saba, St. 
Eustatius, St. Kitts, Nevis, Antigua, Montserrat, Gua- 
deloupe, Dominica and Martinique are known as the 
Leeward Islands; St. Lucia, St. Vincent, the Grena- 
dines, Grenada, Barbados and Tobago are known as 
the Windward Islands. 

The Bermudas form an entirely separate group quite 
distinct from the West Indies — although their climate \ 
is semi-tropic — and lie 750 miles ese of Hatteras and 
some eight hundred miles from the nearest Bahamas. 

The Lesser Antilles are apart from the rest of the 
West Indies in that the Spaniards played very little 
part in their colonisation or development. While it is 
true that Columbus on his later voyages discovered the 
Lesser Antilles, a few of which he actually set foot up- - 
on and most of which he merely named as he saw them 
from a distance, the Spaniards made no attempts to 
settle on these small islands * and they lay unmo- 
lested for over a hundred years till early in the seven- 
teenth century they were settled by the English, French 
and Dutch and a little later by the Danes. Aside from 
the patois of the Negro which varies more or less in 
the different islands, there are now but two languages 
spoken, English in the British, Dutch and Danish pos- 
sessions and French in the French islands. For a time 
the Swedes owned St. Bartholomew which was ceded 
to France in 1878. 

The history of these small islands should be of in- 
terest to us on account of their early intimacy with our 
own colonies and especially because of the part which 
the Dutch island of St. Eustatius played in aiding us 
at the time of the Revolutionary War. But our knowl- 

* With the exception only of Tobago. 



PREFACE xi 

edge of their early days is meagre, hurricanes and the 
depredations of the little wood ant (which literally 
eats away the wooden houses from about their own- 
ers) being the two chief destroyers of manuscripts and 
their containers. What of the life of St. Eustatius — 
scarcely eight miles in area — which had its beginnings 
before our Plymouth colony and in 1781 when at the 
height of its prosperity it was destroyed by Rodney it 
had a population of nearly 40,000 — more than either 
Boston or New York at that time? Its printed history 
does not cover much more than 20,000 words. But 
with history we have little to do in this account. I have 
limited myself to those incidents which might have a 
direct interest for the reader and some of them, in 
whole or in part, as far as I can ascertain, now appear 
in print for the first time. Those who are familiar with 
the literature of the Lesser Antilles will, I hope, be 
agreeably disappointed in not finding in these pages 
those hardy perennials of the guide books — the build- 
ing of schooners at Bottom Town on Saba, eight hun- 
dred feet above the sea, and the deadly snakes of the 
Petit Piton that killed the members of a climbing party 
one by one till the last man fell only a few feet from 
his goal. 

So I have attempted neither a history nor a guide 
book but have spun out the yarn of a lone cruise in a 
sailing canoe. I went to study the islands at first hand 
and in the craft which I believed would be most suit- 
able for the purpose — a deep-sea sailing canoe. The 
main portion of the cruise has appeared serially in 
abbreviated form in the "Outing" magazine. 

I have made no attempt to discuss the problem of 
the native — the more one studies it the less one has to 



xii PREFACE 

say — and my few explosions of choler will, I hope, be 
forgiven. Throughout the islands from Grenada to 
St. Thomas, I have made friends whom I count among 
my best and it is their unexampled courtesy and gen- 
erosity that go to make up some of the most pleasant 
memories of the cruise. Those whom I would es- 
pecially mention are C. V. C. Home and T. B. C. 
Musgrave, who at once made me feel at home in St. 
George's and who, when they could not dissuade me 
from starting out in the Yakaboo, did everything in 
their power to facilitate my preparations for the 
cruise; Dr. William S. Mitchell, who loaned me his 
cotton ginnery; "Jack." Wildman, who helped me to 
much interesting material; "Steady" Glean, who res- 
cued me from the mob at Sauteurs (but that is another 
story) ; Whitfield Smith, now at Grand Turk and 
whose place at Carriacou has been happily filled by 
Musgrave; McQueen, of pleasant memory of Top Hill 
days; Noel Walker — I wonder if he has joined the 
ranks of the many who have "gone west" ; Rupert Ot- 
way, whose hospitality I enjoyed at Union; "Old Bill" 
Wallace; V. J. Monplaisir, "Monty"; Captain Harry 
Turner, then Harbour Master of Castries and now in 
Mombasa; Pere Remaud, I was going to say Labat; 
Monsieur Waddy and the whole of the "Union Spor- 
tive" ; Mr. Frederick Woolworth, who took me in on 
faith and for whom I acted as cook in times of stress; 
Dr. John Morgan Griffith, enthusiast, of Statia; Cap- 
tain "Ben" Hassel, "Freddie" Simmons, and Leslie 
Jarvis, Commissioner of Tortola. 

F. A. F. 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I The Yakaboo is Born and the Cruise Begins 21 

II Whaling at Ile-de-Caille 42 

III Kick 'em Jinny ^ . . 70 

IV Carriacou — Mayero — Bequia 84 

V Climbing the Soufriere of Saint Vincent . no 

VI Days with a Vanishing Race . . . . 135 

VII Delights of Channel Running . . . . 155 

VIII Martinique — Fort de France .... 188 

IX St. Pierre — Pelee 208 

X A Land Cruise — The Calm of Guadeloupe . 233 

XI We Make Our Best Run 270 

XII Statia — The Story of the Salute . . . 289 

XIII Saba 316 

XIV Sir Francis Drake's Channel and — Yaka- 

boo ... 327 



xiu 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

The "Yakaboo" Frontispiece* 

PAGE 

Course of the "Yakaboo" xxV 

The "Carenage ".of St. George's — Grenada ... 24^ 

"Moored stern-to along the quays was a fleet of small 

trading sloops, shabby in rig and crude of build" . 28 ^ 

The market place of St. George's — Grenada ... 34 l 

The tall native whom I hit in the chest with the bag of 

cranberries. On the beach at Duquesne Point . . 38 ^ 

Iron coal-pot of the West Indies 39 ^ 

Jack's shack on Ile-de-Caille where I made my home 44^ 

The "Ajoupa" — a reminder of Carib days .... 44 

In this channel from January to May, the humpback 

loafs on his way to the colder waters of the North 

Atlantic co 

/ 
The "Humpbacker" under sail 58 v 

Unshipping the rig 58 

"Once more we had the weather berth and bore down 
on them under full sail, Bynoe standing high up on 
the 'box,' holding to the forestay" 66 

Grenadine whaleboat showing bow and false-chock. 
The harpoon is poised in the left hand and heaved 
with the right arm 66 

"The immense intestines and bladders that looked like 

a fleet of balloons come to grief" 72 ^ 

My Comstock tent 79 

XV 



xvi ILLUSTRATIONS 



PAGE 

My camp at Mabouya 80 



/ 

Loaded and ready to get off 80 

On Carriacou — looking north . 86 ^ 

"There had been one house in which the owner had 

lived on the top of the hill" 90 ' 

Cassava cakes drying on a roof at Mayero. Ruins of the 
old estate house of the St. Hilaires in the background 96 

Drying the Cassava, Isle de Ronde 96 

Preparing to leave Union. Walker sitting on the rail 
of his sloop and regarding the "Yakaboo" doubt- 
fully 102 v 

Coming back for repairs — six men doing the work of 
two 102 

The effect of the trade wind on the vegetation. Bequia 108 

"Old Bill" and the skipper of the "Yakaboo" . . 108 

"As I neared the shore I saw that the jetty was black 

with black people" . . . 114 v 

The usual appearance of the jetty. Boat unloading 
for the market JI 4 

Along the lee coast of St. Vincent. Point near Layou 120 

My surly guides. Taken above the line of vegetation 126 ' 

The Wallibu Dry River where we began the ascent. The • 
Soufriere in the distance, its cone hidden in the mist. 126 v 

How the Caribs rig a calabash for carrying water . .131 

The rim of the crater 132' 

"A thousand feet below, held in the bowl of the crater 

is a lake nearly a half mile in diameter" .... 132 v 

Black Carib boy at Owia Bay. His catamaran is taxed 
at three pence per foot 140 



ILLUSTRATIONS xvii 

PAGE 

"There is still a satisfying amount of Indian blood left 
in these people" 140 

Rig of a Carib canoe 141 '" 

The Carib boy of St. George's who had been brought to 
Grenada after the eruption of the Soufriere . . . 150 * 

Yellow Caribs at Point Espagfiol 150 

The camera got them just as they had slipped through 
the high surf 166 

The ruins of the church at Owia. The bell and the 
ladder can be seen at the left 180 

Native canoe — St. Lucia 212' 

Native canoe under sail 226 ' 

Sunset — St. Pierre 250 

Ruins of the Cathedral 250 l 

Hauling in the boat 280 " 

The capstan 280 >• 

The bucket . . . . 280 >/ 

The old guns at Fort Oranje, St. Eustatius. The date 
1780 may be seen on the trunnion of the nearest gun 292 : 

The tomb of Admiral Krull 292 " 

"Here was a town walled in by Nature" .... 304 > 

At the head of the Fort Ladder 318 

"Here Freddie Simmons teaches embryo sailor-men, 
still in their knee trousers, the use of the sextant 
and chronometer" 318 v 

The "dikes" of Bottom Town 324 v/ 

A cozy Saba home 3 2 4 v 

The jetty at Norman's Island 33 2v 

Christian the Ninth — St. Thomas . . . ... 340 / 



ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 



ALONE 
IN THE CARIBBEAN 



CHAPTER I 

THE "YAKABOO" IS BORN AND THE CRUISE BEGINS 

"Crab pas mache, li pas gras; 
li mache touop, et li tombe nans chodier." 

"If a crab don't walk, he don't get fat; 
If he walk too much, he gets in a pot." 

— From the Creole. 

IS it in the nature of all of us, or is it just my own 
peculiar make-up which brings, when the wind 
blows, that queer feeling, mingled longing and dread? 
A thousand invisible fingers seem to be pulling me, 
trying to draw me away from the four walls where I 
have every comfort, into the open where I shall have 
to use my wits and my strength to fool the sea in its 
treacherous moods, to take advantage of fair winds 
and to fight when I am fairly caught — for a man is a 
fool to think he can conquer nature. 

It had been a long time since I had felt the weather- 
glow on my face, a feeling akin to the numb forehead 
in the first touch of inebriety. The lure was coming 
back to me. It was the lure of islands and my thoughts 

i 21 



22 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

had gone back to a certain room in school where as a 
boy I used to muse over a huge relief map of the bot- 
tom of the North Atlantic. No doubt my time had 
been better spent on the recitation that was going on. 

One learns little of the geography of the earth from 
a school book. I found no mention of the vast At- 
lantic shelf, that extended for hundreds of miles to 
seaward of Hatteras, where the sperm whale comes to 
feed in the spring and summer and where, even while 
I was sitting there looking at that plaster cast, terrific 
gales might be screaming through the rigging of New 
Bedford whalers, hove-to and wallowing — laden with 
fresh water or grease according to the luck or the 
skill of the skipper. Nor was there scarcely any men- 
tion of the Lesser Antilles, a chain of volcanic peaks 
strung out like the notched back of a dinosaur, from 
the corner of South America to the greater islands that 
were still Spanish. Yet it was on these peaks that my 
thoughts clung like dead grass on the teeth of a rake 
and would not become disengaged. 

Now, instead of looking at the relief map, I was 
poring over a chart of those same islands and reading 
off their names from Grenada to tiny Saba. At my 
elbow was a New Bedford whaler who had cruised 
over that Atlantic shelf at the very time I was contem- 
plating it as a boy. And many years before that he 
had been shipwrecked far below, on the coast of Bra- 
zil. The crew had shipped home from the nearest 
port, but the love of adventure was strong upon the 
captain, his father,* who decided to build a boat from 

* Captain Joshua Slocum, who sailed around the world alone in 
the sloop Spray. 



THE YAKABOO IS BORN— CRUISE BEGINS 23 

the wreckage of his vessel and sail in. it with his wife 
and two sons to New York. 

With mahogany planks sawed by the natives they 
constructed a large sea canoe. For fastenings they 
used copper nails drawn from the wreck of their ship's 
yawl, headed over burrs made from the copper pennies 
of Brazil. Canvas, gear, clothes, and food they had 
in plenty and on the thirteenth of May in 1888, it being 
a fine day, they put to sea. The son traced their course 
with his finger as they had sailed northward in the 
strong trade winds and passed under the lee of the 
Lesser Antilles. Later as a whaler, he had come to 
know the islands more intimately. 

"Here!" said he, pointing to the Grenadines, "you 
will find the niggers chasing humpback whales." On 
Saint Vincent I should find the Carib living in his own 
way at Sandy Bay. Another island had known Joseph- 
ine, the wife of Napoleon, and another had given us 
our own Alexander Hamilton. And there were many 
more things which I should come to know when I my- 
self should cruise along the Lesser Antilles. 

We talked it over. After the manner of the Carib, 
I would sail from island to island alone in a canoe. 

Next to the joy of making a cruise is that of the 
planning and still greater to me was the joy of creat- 
ing the Yakaboo which should carry me. I should ex- 
plain that this is an expression used by Ellice islanders* 
when they throw something overboard and it means 
"Good-bye." " 'Good-bye' to civilisation for a while," 
I thought, but later there were times when I feared the 
name might have a more sinister meaning. So my 

*In the Pacific Ocean just north of the Fiji group. 



84 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

craft was named before I put her down on paper. She 
must be large enough to hold me and my outfit and yet 
light enough so that alone I could drag her up any un- 
inhabited beach where I might land. Most important 
of all, she must be seaworthy in the real sense of the 
word, for between the islands I should be at sea with 
no lee for fifteen hundred miles. I got all this in a 
length of seventeen feet and a width of thirty-nine 
inches. From a plan of two dimensions on paper she 
grew to a form of three dimensions in a little shop in 
Boothbay and later, as you shall hear, exhibited a 
fourth dimension as she gyrated in the seas off Kick 
'em Jinny. The finished hull weighed less than her 
skipper — one hundred and forty-seven pounds. 

From a study of the pilot chart, I found that a pre- 
vailing northeast trade-wind blows for nine months in 
the year throughout the Lesser Antilles. According 
to the "square rigger," this trade blows "fresh," which 
means half a gale to the harbour-hunting yachtsman. 
Instead of sailing down the wind from the north, I 
decided to avoid the anxiety of following seas and to 
beat Into the wind from the lowest island which is 
Grenada, just north of Trinidad. 

My first plan was to ship on a whaler bound on a 
long voyage. From Barbados, where she would touch 
to pick up crew, I would sail the ninety miles to lee- 
ward to Grenada. A wise Providence saw to it that 
there was no whaler bound on a long voyage for 
months. I did find a British trading steamer bound 
out of New York for Grenada. She had no passenger 
license, but it was my only chance, and I signed on 
as a. B. 



THE YAKABOO IS BORN— CRUISE BEGINS 25 

We left New York on one of those brilliant days of 
January when the keen northwest wind has swept the 
haze from the atmosphere leaving the air clear as 
crystal. It was cold but I stood with a bravado air on 
the grating over the engine room hatch from which 
the warm air from the boilers rose through my clothes. 
Below me on the dock and fast receding beyond yelling 
distance stood a friend who had come to bid me good- 
bye. By his side was a large leather bag containing 
the heavy winter clothing I had sloughed only a few 
minutes before. The warmth of my body would still 
be in them, I thought, as the warmth clings to a hearth 
of a winter's evening for a time after the fire has gone 
out. In a day we should be in the Gulf Stream and 
then for half a year I should wear just enough to pro- 
tect me from the sun. Suddenly the tremble of the 
steamer told me of an engine turning up more revolu- 
tions and of a churning propeller. The dock was no 
longer receding, we were leaving it behind. The mad 
scramble of the last days in New York ; the hasty break- 
fast of that morning; the antique musty-smelling cab 
with its pitifully ambling horse, uncurried and furry in 
the frosty air, driven by a whisky-smelling jehu; the 
catching of the ferry by a narrow margin, were of a 
past left far behind. Far out in the channel, that last 
tentacle of civilisation, the pilot, bade us "good luck" 
and then he also became of the Past. The Present was 
the vibrating tramp beneath my feet and the Future 
lay on our course to the South. 

On the top of the cargo in the forehold was the 
crated hull of the Yakaboo, the pretty little "mahogany 
coffin," as they named her, that was going to carry me 



26 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

through five hundred miles of the most delightful deep 
sea sailing one can imagine. I did not know that the 
Pilot Book makes little mention of the "tricks of the 
trades" as they strike the Caribbean, and that instead of 
climbing up and sliding down the backs of Atlantic rol- 
lers with an occasional smother of foam on top to 
match the fleecy summer clouds, I would be pounded 
and battered in short channel seas and that for only 
thirty of the five hundred miles would my decks be 
clear of water. It is the bliss of ignorance that tempts 
the fool, but it is he who sees the wonders of the earth. 

The next day we entered the Gulf Stream where we 
were chased by a Northeaster which lifted the short 
trader along with a wondrous corkscrew motion that 
troubled no one but the real passengers — a load of 
Missouri mules doomed to end their lives hauling pitch 
in Trinidad. 

On the eighth day, at noon, we spoke the lonely 
island of Sombrero with its lighthouse and black keep- 
ers whose only company is the passing steamer. The 
man at the wheel ported his helm a spoke and we 
steamed between Saba and Statia to lose sight of land 
for another day — my first in the Caribbean. The 
warm trade-wind, the skittering of flying-fish chased by 
tuna or the swift dorade, and the rigging of awnings 
proclaimed that we were now well within the tropics. 
The next morning I awoke with the uneasy feeling that 
all motion had ceased and that we were now lying in 
smooth water. I stepped on deck in my pajamas to 
feel for the first time the soft pressure of the tepid 
morning breeze of the islands. 

We lay under the lee of a high island whose green 



THE YAKABOO IS BORN— CRUISE BEGINS 27 

mass rose, surf-fringed, from the deep blue of the Car- 
ibbean to the deep blue of the morning sky with its 
white clouds forever coming up from behind the moun- 
tains and sailing away to the westward. Off our port 
bow the grey buildings of a coast town spread out 
along the shores and crept up the sides of a hill like 
lichen on a rock. From the sonorous bell in a church 
tower came seven deep notes which spread out over 
the waters like a benediction. There was no sign of 
a jetty or landing place, not even the usual small ship- 
ping or even a steamer buoy, and I was wondering in 
a sleepy way where we should land when a polite Eng- 
lish voice broke in, "We are justly proud of the beau- 
tiful harbour which you are to see for the first time I 
take it." 

I fetched up like a startled rabbit to behold a "West 
Indie" gentleman standing behind me, "starched from 
clew to earing" as Captain Slocum put it, and speaking 
a better English than you or I. It was the harbour- 
master. I was now sufficiently awake to recall from 
my chart that the harbour of St. George's is almost 
land-locked. As we stood and talked, the clanking 
windlass lifted our stockless anchor with its load of 
white coral sand and the steamer slowly headed for 
shore. 

The land under a rusty old fort seemed to melt away 
before our bows and we slipped through into the 
carenage of St. George's. We crept in till we filled the 
basin like a toy ship in a miniature harbour. From the 
bridge I was looking down upon a bit of the old world 
in strange contrast, as my memory swung back across 
two thousand miles of Atlantic, to the uncouth towns 



28 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

of our north. The houses, with their jalousied win- 
dows, some of them white but more often washed with 
a subdued orange or yellow, were of the French re- 
gime, their weathered red tile roofs in pleasing con- 
trast to the strong green of the surrounding hills. 

Here in the old days, ships came to be careened in 
order to rid their bottoms of the dread teredo. Under 
our forefoot, in the innermost corner of the harbour, pi- 
rate ships were wont to lie, completely hidden from the 
view of the open sea. At one time this was a hornet's 
nest, unmolested by the bravest, for who would run 
into such a cul-de-sac protected as it was by the forts 
and batteries on the hills above? 

Moored stern-to along the quays, was a fleet of small 
trading sloops, shabby in rig and crude of build, wait- 
ing for cargoes from our hold. Crawling slowly across 
the harbour under the swinging impulse of long sweeps, 
was a drogher piled high with bags of cocoa, a huge- 
bodied bug with feeble legs. 

Along the mole on the opposite side of the carenage 
straggled an assortment of small wooden shacks, one 
and two-storied, scarcely larger than play houses. 
Among these my eyes came to rest on something which 
was at once familiar. There stood a small cotton gin- 
nery with shingled roof and open sides, an exact coun- 
terpart of a corn-crib. I did not then know that in this 
shed I should spend most of my days while in St. 
George's. 

The blast of our deep-throated whistle stirred the 
town into activity as a careless kick swarms an ant-hill 
with life, and the busy day of the quay began as we 
were slowly warped-in to our dock. 



n 3 

w > 

o 

w > 




THE YAKABOO IS BORN— CRUISE BEGINS 29 

A last breakfast with the Captain and Mate — and 
I was ashore with my trunk and gear. The Yakaboo, 
a mere toy in the clutch of the cargo boom, was yanked 
swiftly out of the hold and lightly placed on the quay 
where she was picked up and carried into the custom- 
house by a horde of yelling blacks. Knowing no man, 
I stood there for a moment feeling that I had suddenly 
been dropped into a different world. But it was only 
a different world because I did not know it and as for 
knowing no man — I soon found that I had become a 
member of a community of colonial Englishmen who 
received me with open arms and put to shame any hos- 
pitality I had hitherto experienced. As the nature of 
my visit became known, I was given all possible aid in 
preparing for my voyage. A place to tune up the 
Yakaboo f A young doctor who owned the little gin- 
nery on the far side of the carenage gave me the key 
and told me to use it as long as I wished. 

I now found that the cruise I had planned was not 
altogether an easy one. According to the pilot chart 
for the North Atlantic, by the little blue wind-rose in 
the region of the lower Antilles, or Windward Islands 
as they are called, I should find the trade blowing from 
east to northeast with a force of four, which accord- 
ing to Beaufort's scale means a moderate breeze of 
twenty-three miles an hour. Imagine my surprise, 
therefore, when I found that the wind seldom blew 
less than twenty miles an hour and very often blew a 
whole gale of sixty-five miles an hour. Moreover, at 
this season of the year, I found that the "trade" would 
be inclined to the northward and that my course 



30 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

through the Grenadines — the first seventy miles of my 
cruise — would be directly into the wind's eye. 

I had been counting on that magical figure (30) in 
the circle of the wind-rose, which means that for every 
thirty hours out of a hundred one may here expect 
"calms, light airs, and variables." Not only this, but 
I was informed that I should encounter a westerly tide 
current which at times ran as high as six knots an 
hour. To be sure, this tide current would change every 
six hours to an easterly set which, though it would be 
in my favour, would kick up a sea that would shake the 
wind out of my sails and almost bring my canoe to a 
stand-still. 

Nor was this all. The sea was full of sharks and 
I was told that if the seas did not get me the sharks 
would. Seven inches of freeboard is a small obstacle 
to a fifteen-foot shark. Had the argument stopped 
with these three I would at this point gladly have pre- 
sented my canoe to His Excellency the Governor, so 
that he might plant it on his front lawn and grow 
geraniums in the cockpit. Three is an evil number if 
it is against you but a fourth argument came along and 
the magic triad was broken. If seas, currents, and 
sharks did not get me, I would be overcome by the 
heat and be fever-stricken. 

I slept but lightly that first night on shore. Instead 
of being lulled to sleep by the squalls which blew 
down from the mountains, I would find myself leaning 
far out over the edge of the bed trying to keep from 
being capsized by an impending comber. Finally my 
imagination having reached the climax of its fiendish 
trend, I reasoned calmly to myself. If I would sail 



THE YAKABOO IS BORN— CRUISE BEGINS 31 

from island to island after the manner of the Carib, 
why not seek out the native and learn the truth from 
him? The next morning I found my man, with the 
blood of the Yaribai tribe of Africa in him, who knew 
the winds, currents, sharks, the heat, and the fever. 
He brought to me the only Carib on the island, a boy 
of sixteen who had fled to Grenada after the eruption 
in Saint Vincent had destroyed his home and family. 

From these two I learned the secret of the winds 
which depend on the phases of the moon. They told 
me to set sail on the slack of the lee tide and cover 
my distance before the next lee tide ran strong. They 
pointed out the fever beaches I should avoid and told 
me not to bathe during the day, nor to uncover my 
head — even to wipe my brow. I must never drink my 
water cold and always put a little rum in it — and a 
hundred other things which I did not forget. As for 
the "shyark" — "You no troble him, he no bodder you." 
"Troble" was used in the sense of tempt and I should 
therefore never throw food scraps overboard or troll 
a line astern. I also learned — this from an English- 
man who had served in India — that if I wore a red 
cloth, under my shirt, covering my spine, the actinic 
rays of the sun would be stopped and I should not be 
bothered by the heat. 

It was with a lighter heart, then, that I set about to 
rig my canoe — she was yet to be baptized — and to lick 
my outfit into shape for the long cruise to the north- 
ward. I could not have wished for a better place than 
the cool ginnery which the doctor had put at my dis- 
posal. Here with my Man Friday, I worked through 
the heat of the day — we might have been out of doors 



32 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

for the soft winds from the hills filtered through the 
open sides, bringing with them the dank odour of the 
moist earth under shaded cocoa groves. Crowded 
about the wide-open doors like a flock of strange sea 
fowl, a group of black boatmen made innumerable com- 
ments in their bubbling patois, while their eyes were 
on my face in continual scrutiny. 

And now, while I stop in the middle of the hot af- 
ternoon to eat delicious sponge cakes and drink nu- 
merous glasses of sorrel that have mysteriously found 
their way from a little hut near by, it might not be amiss 
to contemplate the Yakaboo through the sketchy haze 
of a pipeful of tobacco. She did not look her length 
of seventeen feet and with her overhangs would 
scarcely be taken for a boat meant for serious cruis- 
ing. Upon close examination, however, she showed a 
powerful midship section that was deceiving and when 
the natives lifted her off the horses — "O Lard! she 
light!" — wherein lay the secret of her ability. Her 
heaviest construction was in the middle third which 
embodied fully half of her total weight. With her 
crew and the heavier part of the outfit stowed in this 
middle third she was surprisingly quick in a seaway. 
With a breaking sea coming head on, her bow would 
ride the foamy crest while her stern would drop into 
the hollow behind, offering little resistance to the rising 
bow. 

She had no rudder, the steering being done entirely 
by the handling of the main sheet. By a novel con- 
struction of the center-board and the well in which the 
board rolled forward and aft on sets of sheaves, I could 
place the center of lateral resistance of the canoe's un- 



THE YAKABOO IS BORN— CRUISE BEGINS 33 

derbody exactly below the center of effort of the sails 
with the result that on a given course she would sail 
herself. Small deviations such as those caused by waves 
throwing her bow to leeward or sudden puffs that 
tended to make her luff were compensated for by eas- 
ing off or trimming in the mainsheet. In the absence 
of the rudder-plane aft, which at times is a consider- 
able drag to a swinging stern, this type of canoe eats 
her way to windward in every squall, executing a "pi- 
lot's luff" without loss of headway, and in puffy weather 
will actually fetch slightly to windward of her course, 
having more than overcome her drift. 

She was no new or untried freak for I had already 
cruised more than a thousand miles in her predecessor, 
the only difference being that the newer boat was nine 
inches greater in beam. On account of the increased 
beam it was necessary to use oars instead of the custo- 
mary double paddle. I made her wider in order to 
have a stiffer boat and thus lessen the bodily fatigue 
in sailing the long channel runs. 

She was divided into three compartments of nearly 
equal length — the forward hold, the cockpit, and the 
afterhold. The two end compartments were acces- 
sible through watertight hatches within easy reach of 
the cockpit. The volume of the cockpit was diminished 
by one half by means of a watertight floor raised above 
the waterline — like the main-deck of a ship. This floor 
was fitted with circular metal hatches through which 
I could stow the heavier parts of my outfit in the hold 
underneath. The cockpit proper extended for a length 
of a little over six feet between bulkheads so that when 
occasion demanded I could sleep in the canoe. 



34. ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

Her rig consisted of two fore and aft sails of the 
canoe type and a small jib. 

An increasing impatience to open the Pandora's Box 
which was waiting for me, hurried the work of prepa- 
ration and in two weeks I was ready to start. The 
Colonial Treasurer gave me a Bill of Health for the 
Yakaboo as for any ship and one night I laid out my 
sea clothes and packed my trunk to follow me as best 
it could. 

On the morning of February ninth I carried my out- 
fit down to the quay in a drizzle. An inauspicious day 
for starting on a cruise I thought. My Man Friday, 
who had evidently read my thoughts, hastened to tell' 
me that this was only a little "cocoa shower." Even 
as I got the canoe alongside the quay the sun broke 
through the cloud bank on the hill tops and as the rain 
ceased the small crowd which had assembled to see 
me off came out from the protection of doorways as 
I proceeded to stow the various parts of my nomadic 
home. Into the forward compartment went the tent 
like a reluctant green caterpillar, followed by the pegs, 
sixteen pounds of tropical bacon, my cooking pails and 
the "butterfly," a powerful little gasoline stove. Into 
the after compartment disappeared more food, clothes, 
two cans of fresh water, fuel for the "butterfly," films 
in sealed tins, developing outfit and chemicals, ammu- 
nition, and that most sacred of all things — the ditty 
bag. 

Under the cockpit floor I stowed paint, varnish, and 
a limited supply of tinned food, all of it heavy and 
excellent ballast in the right place. My blankets, in 
a double oiled bag, were used in the cockpit as a seat 



THE YAKABOO IS BORN— CRUISE BEGINS 35 

when rowing. Here I also carried two compasses, an 
axe, my camera, and a chart-case with my portfolio 
and log. I had also a high-powered rifle and a Colt's 
thirty-eight-forty. 

With all her load, the Yakaboo sat on the water as 
jaunty as ever. The golden brown of her varnished 
topsides and deck, her green boot-top and white sails 
made her as inviting a craft as I had ever stepped into. 

I bade good-bye to the men I had come to know as 
friends and with a shove the canoe and I were clear of 
the quay. The new clean sails hung from their spars 
for a moment like the unprinted leaves of a book and 
then a gentle puff came down from the hills, rippled 
the glassy waters of the carenage and grew into a 
breeze which caught the canoe and we were sailing 
northward on the weather tide. I have come into the 
habit of saying "we," for next to a dog or a horse 
there is no companionship like that of a small boat. 
The smaller a boat the more animation she has and 
as for a canoe, she is not only a thing of life but is a 
being of whims and has a sense of humour. Have you 
ever seen a cranky canoe unburden itself of an awk- 
ward novice and then roll from side to side in uncon- 
trollable mirth, having shipped only a bare teacupful 
of water? Even after one has become the master of 
his craft there is no dogged servility and she will balk 
and kick up her heels like a skittish colt. I have often 
"scended" on the face of a mountainous following sea 
with an exhilaration that made me whoop for joy, 
only to have the canoe whisk about in the trough and 
look me in the face as if to say, "You fool, did you 
want me to go through the next one?" Let a canoe 



36 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

feel that you are afraid of her and she will become your 
master with the same intuition that leads a thorough- 
bred to take advantage of the tremor he feels through 
the reins. At every puff she will forget to sail and 
will heel till her decks are under. Hold her down 
firmly, speak encouragingly, stroke her smooth sides 
and she will fly through a squall without giving an inch. 
We were already acquainted for I had twice had her 
out on trial spins and we agreed upon friendship as our 
future status. 

It has always been my custom to go slow for the first 
few days of a cruise, a policy especially advisable in 
the tropics. After a morning of delightful coasting 
past the green hills of Grenada, touched here and there 
with the crimson flamboyant like wanton splashes from 
the brush of an impressionist, and occasional flights 
over shoals that shone white, brown, yellow and copper 
through the clear bluish waters, I hauled the Yakaboo 
up on the jetty of the picturesque little coast town of 
Goyave and here I loafed through the heat of the day 
in the cool barracks of the native constabulary. I 
spent the night on the hard canvas cot in the Rest 
Room. 

It was on the second day that the lid of Pandora's 
Box sprang open and the imps came out. My log 
reads : "After beating for two hours into a stiff wind 
that came directly down the shore, I found that the 
canoe was sinking by the head and evidently leaking 
badly in the forward compartment. Distance from 
shore one mile. The water was pouring in through the 
centerboard well and I discovered that the bailing 
plugs in the cockpit floor were useless so that she re- 



THE YAKABOO IS BORN— CRUISE BEGINS 37 

tained every drop that she shipped. I decided not to 
attempt bailing and made for shore with all speed. 
Made Duquesne Point at 1 1 A. M., where the canoe 
sank in the small surf." 

She lay there wallowing like a contented pig while 
I stepped out on the beach. "Well!" she seemed to 
say, "I brought you ashore — do you want me to walk 
up the beach?" A loaded canoe, full of water and 
with her decks awash, is as obstinate as a mother-in- 
law who has come for the summer — and I swore. 

My outfit, for the most part, was well protected in 
the oiled bags which I had made. It was not shaken 
down to a working basis, however, and I found a 
quantity of dried cranberries in a cotton bag — a sod- 
den mass of red. With a yank of disgust, I heaved 
them over my shoulder and they landed with a grunt. 
Turning around I saw a six-foot black with a round 
red pattern on the bosom of his faded cotton shirt, 
wondering what it was all about. I smiled and he 
laughed while the loud guffaws of a crowd of natives 
broke the tension of their long silence. The West 
Indian native has an uncomfortable habit of appearing 
suddenly from nowhere and he is especially fond of 
following a few paces behind one on a lonely road. 
As for being able to talk to these people, I might as 
well have been wrecked on the coast of Africa and 
tried to hold discourse with their ancestors. But the 
men understood my trouble and carried my canoe 
ashore where I could rub beeswax into a seam which 
had opened wickedly along her forefoot. 

Picturing a speedy luncheon over the buzzing little 
"butterfly" I lifted it off its cleats in the forward com- 



38 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

partment, only to find that its arms were broken. The 
shifting of the outfit in the seaway off shore had put 
the stove out of commission. I was now in a land 
where only woodworking tools were known so that any 
repairs were out of the question. I was also in a land 
where the sale of gasoline was prohibited.* 

My one gallon of gasoline would in time have been 
exhausted, a philosophical thought which somewhat 
lessened the sense of my disappointment. And let this 
be a lesson to all travellers in strange countries — follow 
the custom of the country in regard to fires and cook- 
ing. The breaking of the "butterfly" only hastened my 
acquaintance with the delightful mysteries of the "coal- 
pot." Wood fires are but little used in these islands 
for drift-wood is scarce and the green wood is so full 
of moisture that it can with difficulty be made to burn. 
Up in the hills the carbonari make an excellent char- 
coal from the hard woods of the tropical forests and 
this is burned in an iron or earthen-ware brazier known 
as the coal-pot. 

By means of the sign language, which consisted 
chiefly in rubbing my stomach with one hand while 
with the other I put imaginary food into my mouth, 
the natives understood my need and I soon had one of 
my little pails bubbling over a glowing coal-pot. 

The promise of rain warned me to put up my tent 
although I could have been no wetter than I was. 
Food, a change of dry clothes and a pipe of tobacco 
will work wonders at a time like this and as I sat in 
my tent watching the drizzle pock-mark the sands 

* On account of the danger of its use in the hands of careless 
natives. 



THE YAKABOO IS BORN— CRUISE BEGINS 39 

outside, I began to feel that things might not be so bad 
after all. This, however, was one of those nasty 
fever beaches against which my Man Friday had 
warned me, so that with the smiling of the sun at three 
o'clock, I was afloat again. The Yakaboo had been 
bullied into some semblance of tightness. By rowing 
close along shore we reached Tangalanga Point with- 
out taking up much water. 




Iron Coal-Pot of the West Indies 



I was now at the extreme northern end of Grenada 
and could see the Grenadines that I should come to 
know so well stretching away to windward.* They 
rose, mountain peaks out of the intense blue of the sea, 
picturesque but not inviting. As I looked across the 
channel, whitened by the trade-wind which was blow- 
ing a gale, I wondered whether after all I had under- 
estimated the Caribbean. Sauteurs lay some two miles 

* In these parts northeast and windward are synonymous, also 
southwest and leeward. 



40 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

around the point and I now set sail for the first time 
in the open sea. 

In my anxiety lest the canoe should fill again I ran 
too close to the weather side of the point and was caught 
in a combing sea which made the Yakaboo gasp for 
breath. She must have heard the roar of the wicked 
surf under her lee for she shouldered the green seas 
from her deck and staggered along with her cockpit full 
of water till we were at last safe, bobbing up and down 
in the heavy swell behind the reef off Sauteurs. The 
surf was breaking five feet high on the beach and I 
dared not land even at the jetty for fear of smashing 
the canoe. 

A figure on the jetty motioned to a sloop which I 
ran alongside. The outfit was quickly transferred to 
the larger boat and the canoe tailed off with a long 
scope of line. In the meantime a whaleboat was bob- 
bing alongside and I jumped aboard. As we rose 
close to the jetty on a big sea, a dozen arms reached 
out like the tentacles of an octopus and pulled me up 
into their mass while the whaleboat dropped from 
under me into the hollow of the sea. 

Whatever my misfortunes may be, there is always 
a law of compensation which is as infallible as that of 
Gravity. One of those arms which pulled me up be- 
longed to Jack Wildman, a Scotch cocoa buyer who 
owned a whaling station on lle-de-Caille, the first of 
the Grenadines. By the time we reached the cocoa 
shop near the end of the jetty the matter was already 
arranged. Jack would send for his whalers to convoy 
me to his island and there I could stay as long as I 
wished. The island, he told me, was healthy and I 



THE YAKABOO IS BORN— CRUISE BEGINS 41 

could live apart from the whalers undisturbed in the 
second story of his little whaling shack. Here I could 
overhaul my outfit when I did not care to go chasing 
humpbacks, and under the thatched roof of the try- 
works I could prepare my canoe in dead earnest for 
the fight I should have through the rest of the islands. 
That night I slept on the stiff canvas cot in the Rest 
Room of the police station — a room which is reserved 
by the Government for the use of travelling officials, 
for there are no hotels or lodging houses in these parts. 
From where I lay, I could look out upon the channel 
bathed in the strong tropical moonlight. The trade 
which is supposed to drop at sunset blew fresh through- 
out the night and by raising my head I could see the 
gleam of white caps. For the first time I heard that 
peculiar swish of palm tops which sounds like the pat- 
tering of rain. Palmer, a member of the revenue ser- 
vice, who had come into my room in his pajamas, ex- 
plained to me that the low driving mist which I thought 
was fog was in reality spindrift carried into the air 
from the tops of the seas. My thoughts went to the 
Yakaboo bobbing easily at the end of her long line 
in the open roadstead. All the philosophy of small 
boat sailing came back to me and I fell asleep with 
the feeling that she would carry me safely through 
the boisterous seas of the Grenadine channel. 



CHAPTER II 

WHALING AT ILE-DE-CAILLE 

THERE were thirteen of them when I landed on 
Ile-de-Caille — the twelve black whalemen who 
manned the boats and the negress who did the cook- 
ing — and they looked upon me with not a little sus- 
picion. 

What manner of man was this who sailed alone in a 
canoe he could almost carry on his back, fearing neither 
sea nor jumbie, the hobgoblin of the native, and who 
now chose to live with them a while just to chase 
"humpbacks"? Jack Wildman was talking to them 
in their unintelligible patois, a hopeless stew of early 
French and English mixed with Portuguese, when I 
turned to Jose Olivier and explained that now with 
fourteen on the island the spell of bad luck which had 
been with them from the beginning of the season would 
end. The tone of my voice rather than what I said re- 
assured him. 

"Aal roit," he said, "you go stroke in de Aactive 
to-morrow." 

Between Grenada and Saint Vincent, the next large 
island to the north, lie the Grenadines in that seventy 
miles of channel where "de lee an' wedder toid" alter- 
nately bucks and pulls the northeast trades and the 
equatorial current, kicking up a sea that is known all 

42 



WHALING AT ILE-DE-CAILLE 43 

over the world for its deviltry. lle-de-Caille is the first 
of these. 

In this channel from January to May, the humpback 
whale, megaptera versabilis, as he is named from the 
contour of his back, loafs on his way to the colder 
waters of the North Atlantic. For years the New 
Bedford whaler has been lying-in among these islands 
to pick up crews, and it is from him that the negro has 
learned the art of catching the humpback. 

While the humpback is seldom known to attack a 
boat, shore whaling from these islands under the tick- 
lish conditions of wind and current, with the crude 
ballasted boats that go down when they fill and the 
yellow streak of the native which is likely to crop out 
at just the wrong moment, is extremely dangerous and 
the thought of it brings the perspiration to the ends 
of my fingers as I write this story. One often sees a 
notice like this: "May ist, 1909. — A whaleboat with 
a crew of five men left Sauteurs for Union Island; 
not since heard of." 

The men were not drunk, neither was the weather 
out of the ordinary. During the short year since I 
was with them* four of the men I whaled with have 
been lost at sea. With the negro carelessness is always 
a great factor, but here the wind and current are a still 
greater one. Here the trade always seems to blow 
strongly and at times assumes gale force "w'en de 
moon chyange." 

This wind, together with the equatorial current, 
augments the tide which twice a day combs through 
the islands in some places as fast as six knots an hour. 

*This was written in 1912. 



44 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

During the intervals of weather tide the current is 
stopped somewhat, but a sea is piled up which shakes 
the boat as an angry terrier does a rat. It is always 
a fight for every inch to windward, and God help the 
unfortunate boat that is disabled and carried away 
from the islands into the blazing calm fifteen hundred 
miles to leeward. For this reason the Lesser Antilles 
from Trinidad to Martinique are known as the Wind- 
ward Islands. 

And so these fellows have developed a wonderful 
ability to eat their way to windward and gain the help 
of wind and tide in towing their huge catches ashore. 
Even a small steamer could not tow a dead cow against 
the current, as I found out afterward. While the 
humpback is a "shore whale," the more valuable 
deep-water sperm whale is also seen and occasionally 
caught. True to his deep-water instinct he usually 
passes along the lee of the islands in the deeper waters 
entirely out of reach of the shore whaler who may see 
his spout day after day only a few tantalising miles 
away. A sperm whale which by chance got off the 
track was actually taken by the men at Bequia, who in 
their ignorance threw away that diseased portion, the 
ambergris, which might have brought them thousands 
of dollars and kept them in rum till the crack of doom. 

As we stood and talked with Jose, my eyes wandered 
over the little whaling cove where we had landed, al- 
most landlocked by the walls of fudge-like lava that 
bowled up around it. The ruined walls of the cabaret, 
where in the days of Napoleon rich stores of cotton 
and sugar were kept as a foil for the far richer de- 
posit of rum and tobacco hidden in the cave on the 




JACK'S SHACK ON ILE-DE-CAILLE WHERE I MADE MY HOME. 




THE AJOUPA — A REMINDER OF CARIB DAYS 



WHALING AT ILE-DE-CAILLE 45 

windward side, had their story which might come out 
later with the persuasion of a little tobacco. 

The tryworks, like vaults above ground with the 
old iron pots sunk into their tops, gave off the musty 
rancid smell of whale oil that told of whales that had 
been caught, while a line drying on the rocks, one end 
of k frayed out like the tail of a horse, told of a wild 
ride that had come to a sudden stop. But most inter- 
esting of all were the men — African — with here and 
there a shade of Portuguese and Carib, or the pure 
Yaribai, superstitious in this lazy atmosphere where 
the mind has much time to dwell on tales of jumbie and 
lajoblesse* moody and sullen from the effects of a 
disappointing season. So far they had not killed a 
whale and it was now the twelfth of February. 

But even the natives were becoming uneasy in the 
heat of the noon and at a word from Jose two of them 
picked up the canoe and laid her under the tryworks 
roof while the rest of us formed a caravan with the 
outfit and picked our way up the sharp, rocky path to 
the level above where the trade always blows cool. 

Here Jack had built a little two-storied shack, the 
upper floor of which he reserved for his own use when 
he visited the island. This was to be my home. The 
lower part was divided into two rooms by a curtain 
behind which Jose, as befitting the captain of the sta- 
tion, slept in a high bed of the early French days. In 
the other room was a rough table where I could eat 
and write my log after a day in the whaleboats, with 

*The spirits of negro women who have died in illegitimate child- 
birth. 



46 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

the wonderful sunset of the tropics before me framed 
in the open doorway. 

I later discovered that the fractional member of the 
station, a small male offshoot of the Olivier family, 
made his bed on a pile of rags under the table. We 
were really fourteen and a half. In another sense he 
reminded me of the fraction, for his little stomach — 
distended from much banana and plantain eating — 
protruded like the half of a calabash. A steep stair 
led through a trap door to my abode above. This I 
turned into a veritable conjurer's shop. From the 
spare line which I ran back and forth along the cross 
beams under the roof, I hung clothes, bacon, food 
bags, camera, guns and pots, out of the reach of the 
enormous rats which overrun the island. On each 
side, under the low roof, were two small square win- 
dows through which, by stooping, I could see the 
Caribbean. By one of these I shoved the canvas cot 
with its net to keep out the mosquitoes and tarantulas — 
I scarcely know which I dreaded most. Bars on the 
inside of the shutters and a lock on the trap door 
served to keep out those Ethiopian eyes which feel and 
handle as well as look. 

Near the shack was a cabin with two rooms, one 
with a bunk for the cook. The other room was ut- 
terly bare except for wide shelves around the sides 
where the whalemen slept, their bed clothing con- 
sisting for the most part of worn out cocoa bags. 

Almost on a line between the cabin and the shack 
stood the ajoupa, a small hut made of woven withes, 
only partially roofed over, where the cook prepared 
the food over the native coal-pots. As I looked at it, 



WHALING AT ILE-DE-CAILLE 47 

I thought of the similar huts in which Columbus found 
the grewsome cannibal cookery of the Caribs when 
he landed on Guadeloupe. A strange place to be in, I 
thought, with only the Scotch face of Jack and the 
familiar look of my own duffle to remind me of the 
civilisation whence I had come. And even stranger if 
I had known that later in one of these very islands I 
should find a descendant of the famous St. Hilaire 
family still ruling under a feudal system the land where 
her ancestors lived like princes in the days when one 
of them was a companion of the Empress Josephine. 

Even our meal was strange as we sat by the open 
doorway and watched the swift currents eddy around 
the island, cutting their way past the smoother water 
under the rocks. The jack-fish, not unlike the perch 
caught in colder waters, was garnished with the hot 
little "West Indie" peppers that burn the tongue like 
live coals. Then there was the fat little manicou or 
'possum, which tasted like a sweet little suckling pig. I 
wondered at the skill of the cook, whose magic was 
performed over a handful of coals from the charred 
logwood, in an iron kettle or two. Nearly everything 
is boiled or simmered; there is little frying and hardly 
any baking. 

With the manicou we drank the coarse native choco- 
late sweetened with the brown syrupy sugar* of the 
islands. I did not like it at first, there was a by-taste 
that was new to me. But I soon grew fond of it and 
found that it gave me a wonderful strength for rowing 
in the heavy whale-boats, cutting blubber and the ter- 
rific sweating in the tropical heat. As early as 1695 

* Muscovado. 



48 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

Pere Labat in his enthusiasm truly said, "As for me, I 
stand by the advice of the Spanish doctors who agree 
that there is more nourishment in one ounce of choco- 
late than in half a pound of beef." 

At sunset Jack left for Grenada in one of the whale- 
boats, and I made myself snug in the upper floor of the 
shack. Late that night I awoke and looking out over 
the Caribbean, blue in the strong clear moonlight, I 
saw the white sail of the returning whaleboat glide into 
the cove and was lulled to sleep again by the plaintive 
chanty of the whalemen as they sang to dispel the 
imaginary terrors that lurk in the shadows of the cove. 

"Blo-o-ows!" came with the sun the next morning, 
followed by a fierce pounding on the underside of the 
trap door. Bynoe, the harpooner, had scarcely reached 
the lookout on the top of the hill when he saw a spout 
only two miles to windward near Les Tantes. The 
men were already by the boats as I ran half naked 
down the path and dumped my camera in the stern of 
the Active by "de bum (bomb) box," as Jose directed. 
With a string of grunts, curses and "oh-hee's" we got 
the heavy boats into the water and I finished dressing 
while the crews put in "de rock-stone" for ballast. As 
we left the cove we rowed around the north end of 
the island, our oars almost touching the steep rocky 
shore in order to avoid the strong current that swept 
between Caille and Ronde. 

When Jose said, "You go stroke in de Aactive," I 
little knew what was in store for me. The twenty- 
foot oak oar, carried high above the thwart and almost 
on a line with the hip, seemed the very inbeing of un- 
wieldiness. The blade was scarcely in the water before 



WHALING AT ILE-DE-CAILLE 49 

the oar came well up to the chest and the best part of 
the stroke was made with the body stretched out in a 
straight line — we nearly left our thwarts at every 
stroke — the finish being made with the hands close up 
under our chins. In the recovery we pulled our bodies 
up against the weight of the oar, feathering at the 
same time — a needless torture, for the long narrow 
blade was almost as thick as it was wide. Why the 
rowlock should be placed so high and so near the 
thwart I do not know; the Yankee whaler places the 
rowlock about a foot farther aft. 

While the humpbacker has not departed widely from 
the ways of his teacher a brief description of his out- 
fit may not be amiss. His boat is the same large 
double-ended sea-canoe of the Yankee but it has lost 
the graceful ends and the easy lines of the New Bed- 
ford craft. Almost uncouth in its roughness, the well 
painted topsides, usually a light grey with the black of 
the tarred bottom and boot-top showing, give it a 
ship-shape appearance; while the orderly confusion of 
the worn gear and the tarry smell coming up from 
under the floors lend an air of adventure in harmony 
with the men who make up its crew. 

The crew of six take their positions beginning with 
the harpooner in the bow in the following order: bow- 
oar, mid-oar, tub-oar, stroke and boatsteerer. For 
the purpose of making fast to the whale the harpooner 
uses two "irons" thrown by hand. The "iron" is a 
sharp wrought iron barb, having a shank about two 
feet long to which the shaft is fastened. The "first" 
iron is made fast to the end of the whale line, the first 
few fathoms of which are coiled on the small foredeck 



50 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

or "box." This is the heaving coil and is known as 
the "box line." The line then passes aft through the 
bow chocks to the loggerhead, a smooth round oak bitt 
stepped through the short deck in the stern, around 
which a turn or two are thrown to give a braking ac- 
tion as the whale takes the line in its first rush. 

From the loggerhead, the line goes forward to the 
tub amidships in which 150 fathoms are coiled down. 
The "second" iron is fastened to a short warp, the 
end of which is passed around the main line in a bow- 
line so that it will run freely. In case of accident to 
the first, the second iron may hold and the bowline 
will then toggle on the first. Immediately after the 
whale is struck, the line is checked in such a manner 
that the heavy boat can gather headway, usually against 
the short, steep seas of the "trades," without produc- 
ing too great a strain on the gear. The humpbacker 
loses many whales through the parting of his line, for 
his boat is not only heavily constructed but carries a 
considerable weight of stone ballast — "rock-stone" — 
to steady it when sailing. The Yankee, in a boat 
scarcely heavier than his crew, holds the line immedi- 
ately after the strike and makes a quick killing. He 
only gives out line when a whale sounds or shows 
fight. He makes his kill by cutting into the vitals of 
the whale with a long pole lance, reserving the less 
sportsmanlike but more expeditious bomb gun for a 
last resort, while the humpbacker invariably uses the 
latter. 

A jib and sprit-sail are carried, the latter having a 
gaff and boom, becketed for quick hoisting and lower- 
ing. Instead of using the convenient "tabernacle" by 



WHALING AT ILE-DE-CAILLE 51 

which the Yankee can drop his rig by the loosening of 
a pin, the humpbacker awkwardly steps his mast 
through a thwart into a block on the keel. 

The strike may be made while rowing or under full 
sail, according to the position of the boat when a whale 
is "raised." Because of the position of its eyes, the 
whale cannot see directly fore and aft, his range of 
vision being limited like that of a person standing in 
the cabin of a steamer and looking out through the 
port. The whaler takes advantage of this, making his 
approach along the path in which the whale is travel- 
ling. The early whalemen called the bow of the boat 
the "head," whence the expression, "taking them head- 
and-head," when the boat is sailing down on a school 
of whales. 

"Ease-de-oar!" yelled Jose, for we were now out of 
the current, bobbing in the open sea to windward of 
Caille where the "trade" was blowing half a gale. 
We shipped our oars, banking them over the gunwale 
with the blades aft. The other boat had pulled up 
and it was a scramble to see who would get the wind- 
ward berth. 

"You stan' af an' clar de boom," he said to me, as 
the men ran the heavy mast up with a rush while the 
harpooner aimed the foot as it dropped through the 
hole in the thwart and into its step — a shifty trick 
with the dripping nose of the boat pointed skyward one 
instant and the next buried deep in the blue of the At- 
lantic. 

"Becket de gyaf — run ou' de boom — look shyarp !" 
With a mighty sweep of his steering oar, Jose pried 
our stern around and we got the windward berth on the 



m ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

starboard tack. One set of commands had sufficed for 
both boats; we were close together, and they seemed 
to follow up the scent like a couple of joyous Orchas. 
Now I began to understand the philosophy of "de 
rock-stone" for we slid along over the steep breaking 
seas scarcely taking a drop of spray into the boat. As 
I sat on the weather rail, I had an opportunity to study 
the men in their element. The excitement of the siart 
had been edged off by the work at the oars. We 
might have been on a pleasure sail instead of a whale 
hunt. In fact, there was no whale to be seen for "de 
balen* soun'," as Jose said in explanation of the ab- 
sence of the little cloud of steam for which we were 
looking. Daniel-Joe, our harpooner, had already bent 
on his "first" iron and was lazily throwing the end of 
the short warp of his "second" to the main line while 
keeping an indefinite lookout over the starboard bow. 
He might have been coiling a clothesline in the back 
yard and thinking of the next Policeman's Ball. 

The bow-oar, swaying on the loose stay to weather, 
took up the range of vision while we of the weather 
rail completed the broadside. Jose, who had taken in 
his long steering oar and dropped the rudder in its 
pintles, was "feeling" the boat through the long tiller 
in that absent way of the man born to the sea. With 
a sort of dual vision he watched the sails and the sea 
to windward at the same time. "Wet de leach !" and 
"Cippie," the tub-oar, let himself down carefully to 
the lee rail where he scooped up water in a large cala- 
bash, swinging his arm aft in a quick motion, and then 

♦From the French balein, meaning whale. 



WHALING AT ILE-DE-CAILLE 53 

threw it up into the leach to shrink the sail where it 
was flapping. 

Time after time I was on the point of giving the 
yell only to find that my eye had been fooled by a 
distant white cap. But finally it did come, that little 
perpendicular jet dissipated into a cloud of steam as 
the wind caught it, distinct from the white caps as the 
sound of a rattle-snake from the rustle of dry leaves. 
It was a young bull, loafing down the lee tide not far 
from where Bynoe had first sighted him. 

Again he sounded but only for a short time and 
again we saw his spout half a mile under our lee. We 
had oversailed him. As we swung off the wind he 
sounded. In a time too short to have covered the 
distance, I thought, Jose gave the word to the crew 
who unshipped the rig, moving about soft-footed like 
a lot of big black cats without making the slightest 
knock against the planking of the boat. 

We got our oars out and waited. Captain Caesar 
held the other boat hove-to a little to windward of us. 
Then I remembered the lee tide and knew that we must 
be somewhere over the bull. Suddenly Jose whispered, 
"De wale sing!" I thought he was fooling at first, 
the low humming coming perhaps from one of the 
men, but there was no mistaking the sound. I placed 
my ear against the planking from which it came in a 
distinct note like the low tone of a 'cello. While I 
was on my hands and knees listening to him the sound 
suddenly ceased. "Look!" yelled Jose, as the bull 
came up tail first, breaking water less than a hundred 
yards from us, his immense flukes fully twenty feet 
out of the water. 



54 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

Time seemed to stop while my excited brain took in 
the cupid's bow curve of the flukes dotted with large 
white barnacles like snowballs plastered on a black 
wall, while in reality it was all over in a flash — a sight 
too unexpected for the camera. Righting himself, he 
turned to windward, passing close to the other boat. 
It was a long chance but Bynoe took it, sending his 
harpoon high into the air, followed by the snaky line. 

A perfect eye was behind the strong arm that had 
thrown it and the iron fell from its height to sink deep 
into the flesh aft of the fin. As the line became taut, 
the boat with its rig still standing gathered headway, 
following the whale in a smother of foam, the sails 
cracking in the wind like revolver shots while a thin 
line of smoke came from the loggerhead. Caesar 
must have been snubbing his line too much, however, 
for in another moment it parted, leaving a boatload 
of cursing, jabbering negroes a hundred yards or more 
from their starting point. The bull left for more 
friendly waters. The tension of the excitement hav- 
ing snapped with the line, a volley of excuses came 
down the wind to us which finally subsided into a 
philosophical, "It wuz de will ob de Lard." 

Whaling was over for that day and we sailed back 
to the cove to climb the rocks to the ajoupa where we 
filled our complaining stomachs with manicou and 
chocolate. While we ate the sun dropped behind the 
ragged fringe of clouds on the horizon and the day 
suddenly ended changing into the brilliant starlit night 
of the tropics. Even if we had lost our whale, the spell 
was at last broken for we had made a strike. Bynoe's 
pipe sizzled and bubbled with my good tobacco as he 



WHALING AT ILE-DE-CAILLE 55 

told of the dangers of Kick 'em Jinny or Diamond 
Rock on the other side of Ronde. 

The men drew close to the log where we were sit- 
ting as I told of another Diamond Rock off Martinique 
of which you shall hear in due time. Bynoe in turn 
told of how he had helped in the rescue of an unfortu- 
nate from a third Diamond Rock off the coast of Cayan 
(French Guiana) where the criminal punishment used 
to be that of putting a man on the rock at low tide and 
leaving him a prey to the sharks when the sea should 
rise. But there was something else on Bynoe's mind. 
The same thing seemed to occur to Caesar, who ad- 
dressed him in patois. Then the harpooner asked me : 

"An' you not in thees ilan' before?" 

I lighted my candle lamp and spread my charts out 
on the ground before the whalers. As I showed them 
their own Grenadines their wonder knew no bounds. 
Charts were unknown to them. Now they understood 
the magic by which I knew what land I might be ap- 
proaching — even if I had never been there before. 

Most of the names of the islands are French or 
Carib; even the few English names were unknown to 
the men, who used the names given to the islands be- 
fore they were finally taken over by the British. One 
which interested me was Bird Island, which they called 
Mouchicarri, a corruption of Mouchoir Carre or 
Square Handkerchief. This must have been a favour- 
ite expression in the old days for a whitened shoal or a 
low lying island where the surf beats high and white, 
for there is a Mouchoir Carre off Guadeloupe, another 
in the Bahamas and we have our own Handkerchief 
Shoals. From the lack of English names it is not at 



56 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

all unreasonable to suppose that it was a Frenchman 
who first explored the Grenadines. Columbus, on his 
hunt for the gold of Veragua, saw the larger islands 
of Grenada and Saint Vincent from a distance and 
named them without having set foot on them. Mar- 
tinique was the first well established colony in the Les- 
ser Antilles and from that island a boatload of ad- 
venturers may have sailed down the islands, naming 
one of the Grenadines Petit Martinique, from their 
own island, because of its striking similarity of con- 
tour, rising into a small counterpart of Pelee. Also, 
it was more feasible to sail down from Martinique 
than to buck the wind and current in the long channel 
from Trinidad. 

As the fire in the ajoupa died down, the men drew 
closer and closer to the friendly light of my candle, 
away from the spooky shadows, and when I bade them 
good night they were behind the tightly closed door 
and shutters of their cabin by the time I had reached 
my roost in the top of the shack. 

For several days after our first strike the cry of 
"blows" would bring us "all standing" and we would 
put to sea only to find that the whale had made off to 
windward or had loafed into those tantalising currents 
to leeward where we could see it but dared not follow. 
Finally our chance came again — and almost slipped 
away under our very noses. 

We had been following a bull and a cow and calf 
since sunrise. At last they sounded an hour before 
sunset. We had eaten no food since the night before 
and all day long the brown-black almost hairless calves 
of the men had been reminding me in an agonising way 



WHALING AT ILE-DE-CAILLE 57 

of the breast of roasted duck. The constant tacking 
back and forth, the work of stepping and unshipping 
the rig, the two or three rain squalls which washed the 
salt spray out of our clothes and made us cold, had 
tired us and dulled our senses. Suddenly the keen 
Bynoe, with the eyes of a pelican, gave the yell. There 
they were, scarcely a hundred yards from us. The bull 
had gone his way. I was in Caesar's boat this time and 
as Bynqe was considered the better of the two har- 
pooners we made for the calf and were soon fast. 

If ever a prayer were answered through fervency 
our line would have parted and spared this baby — al- 
though it seems a travesty to call a creature twenty- 
eight feet long a baby. But it was a baby compared 
to its mother, who was sixty-eight feet long. As the 
calf was welling up its life blood, giving the sea a tinge 
that matched the colour of the dying sun, the devoted 
mother circled around us, so close that we could have 
put our second iron into her. 

It is always this way with a cow and her calf. The 
first or more skillful boat's crew secures the calf while 
the mother's devotion makes the rest easy for the 
other boat. There was no slip this time and the pro- 
gramme was carried out without a hitch. Jose bore 
down in the Active and Daniel-Joe sent his iron home 
with a yell. We stopped our work of killing for the mo- 
ment to watch them as they melted away in the fading 
light, a white speck that buried itself in the darkness of 
the horizon. It was an all-night row for us, now in 
the lee tide, now in the weather tide, towing this 
baby — a task that seemed almost as hopeless as towing 



58 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

a continent. But we made progress and by morning 
were back in the cove. 

Having eaten three times and cut up the calf, we 
sailed for Sauteurs late in the afternoon for news of 
Jose and the cow. Jose's flight from Mouchicarri, 
where we had struck the whales, had been down the 
windward coast of Grenada. We were met on the 
jetty by Jack, who told us that the cow had been killed 
at the other end of Grenada and would not start till 
the next noon. He had made arrangements for the 
little coasting steamer, Taw, to tow the carcass up 
from St. George's. 

And so the cow would make the circuit of the island, 
the first part very much alive, towing a crew of ne- 
groes half dead from fright and the last of the way 
being towed very much dead. While we had been 
rowing our hearts out, Jose and his crew had been 
streaking it behind the whale, not daring to pull up in 
the darkness for the "kill." 

At dawn they despatched the weakened animal more 
than thirty miles from their starting point. We learned 
later that, although the wind and tide had been in their 
favour and as they neared shore other boats had put 
out to reach them, they did not reach St. George's till 
eleven the following night. They had made half a 
mile an hour. 

As we turned in on the floor of Jack's cocoa shop, I 
began to have visions of something "high" in the line 
of whale on the morrow. I knew the Taw. She could 
not possibly tow the whale any faster than three miles 
an hour and would not leave St. George's till one 
o'clock the next day. The distance was twenty-one 




&\\ 




UNSHIPPING THE RIG. 



WHALING AT ILE-DE-CAILLE 59 

miles, so that by the time she could be cut-in the whale 
would have been dead three nights and two days. I 
no longer regretted the wild night ride I had missed. 

The next afternoon we were again in the whaleboat, 
Jack with us. Our plan was to wait near London 
Bridge, a natural arch of rocks half way between Sau- 
teurs and Caille and a little to windward. We did 
this to entice the captain of the Taw as far to wind- 
ward as possible for we were not at all certain that 
he would tow the whale all the way to lle-de-Caille. 
If he brought the whale as far as London Bridge, the 
two boats might be able to tow the carcass during the 
night through the remaining three miles to the island 
so that we could begin to cut-in in the morning. 

So we sailed back and forth till at last, as the sun 
was sinking, we made out the tiny drift of steamer 
smoke eight miles away. They were not even making 
the three miles an hour and Bynoe said that the tongue 
must have swollen and burst the lines, allowing the 
mouth to open. We began to wonder why they did not 
cut off the ventral flukes and tow the whale tail first. 
But the reason came out later. 

The moon would be late, and we continued sailing 
in the darkness without a light, lest the captain should 
pick us up too soon and cast off the whale in mid- 
channel where ten whaleboats could not drag her 
against the current which was now lee. We lost sight 
of the steamer for an hour or so but finally decided 
that what we had taken for a low evening star was her 
masthead light. In another hour we could make out 
the red and green of her running lights. She was in 
the clutches of the tide directly to leeward. She was 



60 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

also two miles off her course and we began to wonder 
why the captain did not give up in disgust and cast the 
whale adrift. We sailed down to find out. 

First the hull of the steamer began to take shape in 
the velvety darkness; then as we swung up into the 
wind we made out the whaleboat some distance astern. 
As the bow of the steamer rose on a long sea, her after 
deck lights threw their rays on a low black object upon 
which the waves were shoaling as on a reef. At the 
same instant a stray whiff from the trade wind brought 
us the message. We were doubly informed of the 
presence of the cow. 

But it was not the cow that drew our attention. On 
the aft deck, leaning far out, stood the captain. His 
features were distinct in the beams of the range light. 
Suddenly he started as though he had seen something. 
Then he bellowed, "Where in hell did you come 
from?" 

"We've been waiting to windward for you; what's 
the trouble?" 

"Trouble?" he shrieked, "trouble? — your damned 
old whale is fast and I can't get her off." 

We guessed the rest. As Bynoe had predicted, the 
tongue had swollen and burst the lashing that had held 
the mouth closed. Next the towline had parted. This 
had happened shortly after the steamer left St. 
George's and the men who were towing behind in their 
boat had begged the captain to pass out his steel 
cable. He didn't know it but it was here that he erred. 
The whalemen ran the cable through the jaw, bending 
the end into a couple of hitches. When they started 



WHALING AT ILE-DE-CAILLE 61 

up again, the hitches slipped back and jammed, making 
it impossible to untie the cable. 

Progress had been slow enough under the lee of 
Grenada but when the steamer got clear of the land 
she felt the clutches of the current and progress to 
the northward was impossible. He announced to the 
pleading whalemen that he was sick of the job and was 
going to cut loose. But he couldn't. There was not 
a tool aboard except the engine room wrenches. Not 
even a file or a cold-chisel. 

Jack asked him, "What are you going to do?" 

"Me? — it's your whale." 

"Yes, but you've got it. I don't want it, it's too old 
now." 

And old it was. The smell even seemed to go to 
windward. But there was only one course left and 
twelve o'clock found us at Sauteurs, the whale still 
in possession of the Taw. 

The scene of our midnight supper in the cocoa shop 
that night will long remain in my memory as one of 
those pictures so strange and far off that one often 
wonders whether it was a real experience or a fantasy 
suggested by some illustration or story long since for- 
gotten. We cooked in Jack's little sanctum, railed off 
at one end of the shop, where the negress brings his 
tea in the morning and afternoon. At the other end 
was the small counter with the ledger and scales that 
brought out the very idea of barter. On the floor 
space between were bags of cocoa and the tubs in 
which the beans are "tramped" with red clay for the 
market. Two coils of new whale line and a bundle 



62 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

of spare irons lay near the door waiting for our re- 
turn to the island. 

Strewn about between the bags and tubs were the 
humpbackers like blackened driftwood, their clothes 
giving the appearance of kelp. Jose and his crew were 
already fast sleep, while the others sat up against the 
bags, watching us like hungry dogs for the food we 
should give them. As we ate the tinned beef of the 
jungle that shook hands across the sea with the tea 
of the sporting Baronet, we talked of things of the 
sea, and Bynoe, unlettered but sage, shrewd and sharp, 
put in a word now and then till his own crew, sent 
to sleep by the monotone of our voices, slid one by one 
to the floor. 

At last the chorus of snores reminded us that we 
too ought to turn in and we drifted off to smooth cur- 
rentless seas filled with whales. 

In the morning Bynoe announced: 

"Balen not too bad, we cut up she." But she was 
bad enough as the morning breeze bore testimony 
through the open door of the shop. 

Jack said, "We'll be Yankees this morning," so we 
ate our breakfast early, procured a cold-chisel and cut 
the steamer loose. As she left the roadstead she gave 
a joyous toot, while the captain sent us a parting volley 
of his choicest morning oaths. We anchored the car- 
cass in the smoother waters behind the reef where we 
began the work of cutting-in. 

Cutting-in a freshly killed whale with long-handled 
spades from the staging of a whaler at sea is a greasy 
job at best, but we, who had no masthead tackle for 
stripping the blubber like the spiral peel of an orange, 



WHALING AT ILE-DE-CAILLE 63 

were not simply greasy — we were filthy. As we 
swarmed over the slippery sides of the whale, remov- 
ing chunks of blubber like cakes of ice, I thought of 
one of my New Bedford friends who used to boast of 
how he revelled in crawling into the "innards" of a 
whale for the choice oil of the immense liver and the 
possible chance of finding a piece of ambergris. This 
job would have put a stop to his boast forever. But 
it did not last long for we could only remove the blub- 
ber from the top side. The sharks had taken care of 
the underbody. We had the assistance of other boats 
which carried the blubber to the tryworks at lle-de- 
Caille as fast as we could load them. 

This was only the first stage, however, for it is 
really the flesh that the native is after. He cares little 
for the oil which he burns in the trying and which com- 
mands but a small price. Strange to say, in this hot 
country the negro is extremely fond of whale-meat, 
which brings a price of three cents a pound in the 
markets. Next to rum they love whale-meat. 

I lasted through the blubber stage and retired grace- 
fully, making the following note in my log: "The 
whaleman has only four senses, sight, taste, hearing 
and touch." 

But the sense of smell of the shore natives was not 
underdeveloped. When I landed on the jetty I found 
the whole town holding its nose. All afternoon Jack 
and I watched the men from the hill in back of the 
town as they dug at that putrid mountain of flesh which 
was being carried away in boatloads till there was little 
left above water but the immense intestines and blad- 
ders that looked like a fleet of balloons come to grief. 



64 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

I am firmly convinced that the next morning the 
odour from that carcass opened the door, walked in and 
shook me by the shoulders. No one else had done it 
and I sat up with a start. Shortly after, a courier from 
the district board brought the following message: (I 
use the word "courier" for it is the only time I ever 
saw a native run.) 

St. Patrick's District Board, 
Secretary's Office, 24th, February, 191 1. 
John S. Wildman, Esq., 

Sir: — In the interest of sanitation, I am instructed 
to request that the whale's carcass be removed from 
the harbour within three hours after the service of this 
notice. 

I have the honour to be, sir, 

Your obedient servant, 

R. L. B. A., Warden. 

We were not unwilling and had what was left of 
the cow towed out into the current which would carry 
it far into the Caribbean where for days the gulls 
could gorge themselves and scream over it in a white 
cloud. At least that was our intention, but by a pretty 
piece of miscalculation on the part of Bynoe the car- 
cass fetched up under Point Tangalanga where the 
last pieces of flesh were removed on the eighth day 
after the whale's death. 

Our work done at Sauteurs, we sailed back to Caille, 
where we scrubbed out the boats with white coral sand 
to remove the grease, dried out the lines and coiled 
them down in the tubs for the next whale. 

My real ride behind a humpback came at last in that 
unexpected way that ushers in the unusual. We were 



WHALING AT ILE-DE-CAILLE 65 

loafing one day near Mouchicarri, lying-to for the 
moment in a heavy rain squall, when it suddenly 
cleared, disclosing three whales under our lee. They 
were a bull, a cow and a yawlin (yearling), with Jose 
close on their track. Bynoe hastily backed the jib so 
that we could "haal aff" and we made a short tack. 

Just as we were ready to come about again in order 
to get a close weather berth of the bull, the upper rud- 
der pintle broke and our chance slipped by. Why 
Caesar did not keep on, using the steering oar, I do 
not know. Perhaps it was that yellow streak that is so 
dangerous when one is depending on the native in a 
tight place, for we should have had that bull. He 
was immense. 

The rudder was quickly tied up to the stern post, but 
it was only after two hours of tedious sailing and row- 
ing that we were again upon them. Once more we had 
the weather berth and bore down on them under full 
sail, Bynoe standing high up on the "box," holding to 
the forestay. Except for the occasional hiss of a sea 
breaking under us, there was not a sound and we 
swooped down on them with the soft flight of an owl. 

As I stood up close to Caesar, I could see the whole 
of the action. The three whales were swimming 
abreast, blowing now and then as they rose from a 
shallow dive. The tense crew, all looking forward 
like ebony carvings covered with the nondescript rags 
of a warehouse, seemed frozen to their thwarts. Only 
one of us moved and he was Caesar, and I noticed that 
he swung the oar a little to port in order to avoid the 
bull and take the yawlin. I had guessed right about 
the yellow streak. 



66 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

But even the yawlin was no plaything and as he rose 
right under the bow the sea slid off his mountainous 
back as from a ledge of black rock, a light green in 
contrast to the deep blue into which it poured. The 
cavernous rush of air and water from his snout sprayed 
Bynoe in the face as he drove the iron down into him. 
He passed under us, our bow dropping into the swirl 
left by his tail and I could feel the bump of his back 
through Caesar's oar. 

I wondered for the moment if the boat would trip. 
There seemed to be no turning, for the next instant the 
flying spray drove the lashes back into my eyes and I 
knew we were fast. Blinded for the moment I could 
feel the boat going over and through the seas, skitter- 
ing after the whale like a spoon being reeled in from a 
cast. When I finally succeeded in wiping the lashes out 
of my eyes there was nothing to be seen ahead but 
two walls of spray which rose from the very bows of 
the boat, with Bynoe still clinging to the stay with his 
head and shoulders clear of the flying water. There 
was no need to wet the line; the tub oar was bailing 
instead. 

How the rig came down I do not know and I marvel 
at the skill or the luck of the men who unshipped the 
heavy mast in that confusion of motions, for my whole 
attention was called by the yelling Caesar to the logger- 
head, which somehow had one too many turns around 
it. Caesar was busy with the steering oar, and the 
men had settled down a little forward of midships 
to keep the boat from yawing. So I committed the 
foolhardy trick of jumping over the line as it whizzed 
past me in a yellow streak and, bracing myself on the 




"once more we had the weather berth and bore down 
on them under full sail, bynoe standing high up on 
the "box/' holding to the forestay." 







GRENADINE WHALEBOAT SHOWING BOW AND FALSE-CHOCK. 
THE HARPOON IS POISED IN THE LEFT HAND AND HEAVED WITH 
THE RIGHT ARM. 



WHALING AT ILE-DE-CAILLE 67 

port side, I passed my hand aft along the rope with 
a quick motion and threw off a turn, also a considerable 
area of skin, of which the salt water gave sharp notice 
later. 

The line was eased and held through this first rush. 
As the whale settled down to steady flight we threw 
back that turn and then another, till the tub emptied 
slower and slower and the line finally came to a stop. 
We were holding. But we were still going; it only 
meant that the yawlin, having gone through his first 
spurt, had struck his gait; it was like a continuous ride 
in the surf. By this time the boat was well trimmed 
and bailed dry. 

"Haal een, now," came from Caesar, and I was 
again reminded of the missing skin. By the inch first, 
then by the foot it came, till we had hauled back most 
of our thousand feet of line. The walls of spray had 
dropped lower and lower, till we could see the whale 
ahead of us, his dorsal fin cutting through the tops of 
the waves. We were now close behind his propelling 
flukes that came out of the water at times like the 
screw of a freighter in ballast. Caesar told me to 
load "de bum lance," and I passed the gun forward 
to Bynoe. He held it for a moment in pensive inde- 
cision — and then placed it carefully under the box. 

He now removed the small wooden pin that keeps 
the line from bobbing out of the bow chocks, and 
with the blunt end of a paddle he carefully pried the 
line out of the chock so that it slid back along the 
rail, coming to rest against the false chock about three 
feet abaft the stem. We now swerved off to one side 
and were racing parallel to the whale opposite his 



68 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

flukes. The bow four surged on the line while I took 
in the slack at the loggerhead, Caesar wrestling franti- 
cally with his steering oar that was cutting through the 
maelstrom astern. 

We were now fairly opposite the yawlin, which 
measured nearly two of our boat's length. It was one 
of those ticklish moments so dear to the Anglo-Saxon 
lust for adventure — even the negroes were excited 
beyond the feeling of fear. But at the sight of the 
bomb gun, as Bynoe took it out from under the box, 
a feeling of revulsion swept over me and if it were 
not for the fatal "rock-stone," or the sharks that 
might get us, I would have wished the gun overboard 
and a fighting sperm off Hatteras on our line. 

The yawlin continued his flight in dumb fear. 
Fitting his left leg into the half-round of the box, the 
harpooner raised his gun and took aim. Following 
the report came the metallic explosion of the bomb 
inside the whale. Our ride came to an end almost as 
suddenly as it had begun; the yawlin was rolling 
inert at our side, having scarcely made a move after 
the shot. The bomb had pierced the arterial reservoir, 
causing death so quickly that we missed the blood and 
gore which usually come from the blow-hofe in a 
crimson fountain with the dying gasps of the whale. 
Bynoe explained that one could always tell if the vital 
spot had been reached: 

"If he go bam! he no good. Wen he go cling! 
de balen mus' stop." His way of expressing it was 
perfect, for the "cling" was not unlike the ringing 
hammer of trapped air in a steam pipe, but fainter. 

Luck was with us this time, for we were well to 



WHALING AT ILE-DE-CAILLE 69 

windward of Caille, with a tide that was lee to help 
us home. 

But it was my last whale at ile-de-Caille, and after 
we had cut him in and set his oily entrails adrift I 
turned once more to the Yakaboo. I had had enough 
of humpbacking and one night I packed my outfit and 
smoked for the last time with the men. 



CHAPTER III 

KICK 'EM JINNY 

I FIRMLY believe that it was my lucky bug that 
did the trick, although under ordinary circum- 
stances I would not carry a tarantula for a mascot. 
It was on my last night at lle-de-Caille, and as I 
crawled up through the hatch of my upper story abode, 
something black stood out in the candle flicker against 
the wall. Before I knew what it was, instinct told 
me that it was something to look out for and then I 
noticed the huge hairy legs that proclaimed the taran- 
tula. Of course, I could not have him running around 
as he pleased so I took the under half of a sixteen 
gauge cartridge box and covered him before he had 
time to think of jumping. The box, which measured 
four and a half inches square, was not too large for I 
nipped his toes as I pressed the pasteboard against 
the wall. Then I slid a sheet of paper between him 
and the wall. It was no trick at all to superimpose the 
upper half of the pasteboard box, slip out the paper 
and push the cover down. He was mine. And a 
good mascot he proved to be although I gave him a 
rough time of it in the jumble of sea off Kick 'em 
Jinny. 

Kick 'em Jinny is the sea-mule of the Grenadines. 
In a prosaic way the cartographer has marked it 

70 



KICK 'EM JINNY 71 

"Diamond Rock," and then, as if ashamed of himself, 
has put the real name in small letters underneath. So 
"steep-to" that a vessel would strike her bowsprit on 
its sides before her keel touched bottom, Kick 'em 
Jinny rises from a diameter of a quarter of a mile to 
a height of nearly seven hundred feet. Cactus-grown, 
with no natural resources, one would scarcely expect 
to find on it any animal life other than a few sea fowl. 
Yet, besides myriads of screaming gulls, boobies, peli- 
cans and wild pigeons, here are goats, the wild 
descendants of those left by the Spanish pirates, who 
used to plant them as a reserve food supply that would 
take care of itself. 

The rock lies a third of a mile to the northward of 
Isle de Ronde, with the jagged Les Tantes a scant two 
miles to the eastward. With the trades blowing fresh 
from the northeast the lee tide runs through the pas- 
sage between Isle de Ronde and Les Tantes at a 
rate of three knots an hour, whirling past Kick 'em 
Jinny in a northwesterly direction — at right angles to 
the wind and sea. The weather tide in returning runs 
in almost the opposite direction at the rate of a knot 
and a half. It must be remembered that the constant 
northeasterly winds move a surface current of water 
toward the southwest so that this confluence of wind 
and current makes a tide rip on the weather side of 
Kick 'em Jinny, from which its name is derived. 

Now you may ask, as I did when I discussed the 
matter with my friends of St. George's over tall, cool 
glasses of lime squash — Why not sail under the lee of 
Kick 'em Jinny? If I sailed under the lee of the rock I 
should lose much valuable ground to windward while 



72 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

if I fought it out along the back or weather side of 
Ronde and Kick 'em Jinny and then made a port tack 
to Les Tantes I should be in the best possible position 
for my jump to Carriacou. That point settled, it was 
a question of tides. With the lee tide running to the 
north-north-west I might not be able to clear the 
rocky windward shore on my starboard tack, and it 
would be very difficult to claw off on the port tack, the 
latter being to eastward and away from shore. 

With the weather tide, however, I could work my 
way off shore in case of necessity, but I should be 
fighting the current as I advanced on the starboard 
tack. With the weather tide I should encounter the 
rougher sea, and it was here that the Yakaboo would 
meet her pons asinorum, to carry out the idea of the 
sea-mule. 

Many bets had been offered and some had been 
taken at St. George's that I would not reach Carriacou, 
which implied that the cruise would come to an end 
off Kick 'em Jinny. But I put my faith in one — my 
Man Friday, who had instructed me in the mysteries of 
"de lee an' wedder toid," and he had shown me how to 
watch the weather in regard to the changes of the 
moon. During my stay on Ile-de-Caille, I watched the 
quarters come and go and kept track of the moon in 
order to note the changing of the tides. I finally 
selected a day when the second quarter had promised 
steady winds, with the weather tide beginning to run 
at nine o'clock in the morning. If there should be 
any doubt as to the weather for that day, that doubt 
would be settled by the time the weather tide had 






KICK 'EM JINNY 73 

started. With everything as much in my favour as 
possible I would make the attempt. 

I slept that morning till the sun had climbed well 
up the back of Caille, for when I awoke the warm 
day breezes were filtering over me through the mos- 
quito bar. I must have eaten breakfast, but later in 
the day I was puzzled to remember whether I had or 
not. My mind was not in the present, nor anywhere 
near my earthly body — it was living in the next few 
hours and hovering over that stretch of water to the 
eastward of Kick 'em Jinny. Bynoe and his crew were 
also going to sail northward to Cannouan in the 
Baltimore, and I remember standing among the rocks 
of the whale cove bidding good-bye to the rest of the 
people. The few shillings I gave them seemed a 
princely gift and tears of gratitude streamed down the 
black shiny face of the cook when I presented her 
with a bottle of rheumatism cure. 

The tide would turn at seven minutes after the 
hour and three minutes later the Yakaboo was in the 
water. By the feel of her as she bobbed in the heave 
of the sea I knew that the fight was on. With long 
rhythmic strokes the whaleboat swung out of the cove, 
the canoe moving easily alongside like a remora. 
Cautiously we rowed around the north end of Caille, 
seeking the currentless waters close to shore. When 
we reached the windward side of the island we made 
sail. It did not take many minutes to see that the 
canoe would be left alone in her fight with Kick 'em 
Jinny for the whaleboat, with her ballast of "rock- 
stone" and her twelve hundred pounds of live 
weight to steady her, caught the wind high above the 



74 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

seas with her tall rig and worried her way through the 
jumble in a way that made me forget, in a moment of 
admiration, my own sailing. 

But I had other business than that of watching the 
whaleboat. As I hauled in the sheet to lay the canoe 
on the starboard tack, a sea seemed to come from 
nowhere and with scant invitation dropped aboard and 
filled the cockpit. It was like starting up a sleeping 
horse with an inconsiderate whip lash. The Yakaboo 
shook herself and gathered herself for that first essay 
of windward work. Try as she would, she could find 
no ease in the nasty, steep sea, and instead of working 
well along the shore of Ronde in the wake of the 
whaleboat, she barely crossed the channel from Caille 
and fetched up at the southern tip of the island. 

On the port tack to sea she did better, although the 
weather tide running abeam carried us back off Caille. 
We made perhaps a mile to the eastward and then 
I decided to try the starboard tack again. The canoe 
did still better this time — for a while — and then we 
found ourselves in the toils of Kick 'em Jinny. The 
tide was now running with full force directly against 
us and at right angles to the wind. There seemed 
to be no lateral motion to the seas, they rose and fell 
as though countless imps were pushing up the surface 
from below in delirious random. One moment the 
canoe would be poised on the top of a miniature water 
column to be dropped the next in a hollow, walled 
about on all sides by masses of translucent green and 
blue over which I could see nothing but sky. The stiff 
wind might not have been blowing at all, it seemed, for 
the sails were constantly ashake, while the centerboard 



KICK 'EM JINNY 75 

rattled in its casing like the clapper of a bell. It was 
not sailing — it was riding a bronco at sea. 

Bynoe, who was carrying my extra food supply in 
the whaleboat, was now making frantic motions for me 
to turn back. I had already decided, however, that 
the canoe would worry her way through and I 
motioned to the whalers to come alongside. With the 
two boats rising and falling beside one another, as 
though on some foreshortened see-saw, the stuff was 
transferred from the whaleboat to the canoe. As the 
whaleboat rose over me the men dropped my bags 
into the cockpit with an accuracy and ease of aim 
acquired from years of life in just such jumping water 
as this. The canoe sailor must at times not only be 
ambidextrous, but must also use feet and teeth; in 
fact, he must be an all around marine acrobat. What 
wonders we could perform had we but retained the 
prehensile tail of our animal ancestors! So with the 
mainsheet in my teeth and my legs braced in the cock- 
pit, I caught the bags with one hand and with the 
other stowed them in the forward end of the well 
under the deck. A large tin of sea biscuit, a cubical 
piece of eight-cornered wickedness, which would 
neither stow under deck nor pass through the hatches, 
required two hands for catching and stowing and a 
spare line to lash it in place just forward of my blanket 
bag. Then they screamed "Good-bye" at me across 
the waves, while I yelled "Yakaboo," and we parted 
company. Of that row of six black faces, two I shall 
never see again for they have since been lost in the 
very waters where we said "Good-bye." 

Taking quick cross-bearings by eye I could detect 



76 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

from time to time changes in the position of the canoe 
and I knew that there was some advance to the north- 
ward. Finally we were so close to Kick 'em Jinny that 
I could see the chamois-like goats stuck on its sides like 
blotched rocks. All progress seemed to cease and for 
three-quarters of an hour I could detect no change of 
position. No stage racehorse ever made a gamer 
fight than did the Yakaboo against her ocean treadmill. 
The whaleboat was now a vanishing speck to the north- 
ward like a fixed whitecap. I began to wonder whether 
I should stick in this position till the coming of the lee 
tide. I remember contemplating a small strip of beach 
on Les Tantes where, in a pinch, I might land through 
the breast-high surf with enough food to last till the 
whalers might see some sign that I could put up on 
the rocks. 

Suddenly a blinding flash brought my attention from 
Les Tantes to my cockpit. It was the tin of sea biscuit. 
The water sloshing in the cockpit had softened the 
glue of the paper covering. Finally, an extra large 
wave, a grandfather, swept the paper entirely off, leav- 
ing the shiny tin exposed to the brilliant sun. With a 
sweep I cut the line, and the next instant I was mourn- 
ing the loss of a week's supply of sea biscuit. 

The forward compartment now proved to be leaking, 
through the deck as I discovered later, at just the time, 
when, if the canoe had any soul at all, she would keep 
tight for my sake. I shifted my outfit as far aft as 
possible and sponged the water out by the cupful with 
one hand ready to slam down the hatch in advance of a 
boarding sea. It was done — somehow — and as a 
reward I found the canoe was working her way into 



KICK 'EM JINNY 77 

easier seas. Then she began to sail and I realised that 
Kick 'em Jinny was a thing of the past. I lay-to off 
Les Tantes, having travelled three miles in two hours. 
We had not conquered Kick 'em Jinny, we had merely 
slipped by her in one of her lighter moods. But the 
canoe had stood the test and by this I knew that she 
would carry me through the rest of the channel to Saint 
Vincent. What her story would be for the larger 
openings of from twenty-five to nearly forty miles yet 
remained to be seen. 

With her heels clear of Kick 'em Jinny the Yakaboo 
travelled easily in the freer waters and before the tide 
could draw me out into the Caribbean I was well under 
the lee of Carriacou. Another half hour and I should 
have had to fight for six hours till the next weather 
tide would help me back to land. 

Late in the afternoon, I stepped out of the canoe on 
the uninhabited island of Mabouya, which lies off Car- 
riacou. The beach where I landed was typical of the 
few low-lying cays of the Grenadines. The sand strip, 
backed by a cheval de frise of cactus, curved crescent- 
like, the horns running into sharp, rocky points which 
confined the beach. The only break in the cactus was 
a clump of the dreaded manchioneel trees and here I 
decided to pitch my tent. 

Barbot, in relating the second voyage of Columbus, 
says: "On the shore grow abundance of mansanilla 
trees, not tall, but the wood of them fine, the leaves 
like those of the pear tree, the fruit a sort of small 
apples, whence the Spaniards gave them the name; of 
so fine a colour and pleasant a scent, as will easily invite 
such as are unacquainted to eat them ; but containing a 



78 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

mortal poison, against which no antidote has any force. 
The very leaf of it causes an ulcer, where it touches 
the flesh, and the dew on it frets off the skin; nay the 
very shadow of the tree is pernicious, and will cause 
a man to swell, if he sleeps under it." I thought I 
would take a chance — perhaps the manchioneel had 
become softer and more civilised since the time of 
Columbus. 

If there were any joy in the feeling of relief as I 
walked up that lonely beach, I knew it not. Tired as 
I was, I could only think of the hard work that I had 
to do before I could lie down to rest. The Yakaboo 
had been leaking steadily all day long and she now 
lay where I had left her in a foot of water, with my 
whole outfit except my camera submerged. This did 
not mean that everything was wet, for my own muslin 
bags, honestly oiled and dried, would keep their con- 
tents dry, but there was the canoe to unload, bail 
out and drag ashore. There was firewood to collect 
before dark, and I should have to work sharp before 
sundown, for there were also the tent to pitch, the 
supper to cook, and the log to write. 

For a moment I stopped to look at the glorious sun 
racing to cool himself in the Caribbean, and I gave 
thanks for a strong body and a hopeful heart. In two 
hours I was sitting under the peak of my tent on my 
blanket roll, watching my supper boil in a little pail 
over a lively fire of hard charcoals. The Yakaboo, 
bailed out, high and dry on the beach, skulked in the 
darkness as though ashamed to come near the fire. 

It is always easy to say "in two hours I was doing 
so and so," but to the man who lives out of doors and 



KICK 'EM JINNY 



79 



is constantly using his wits to overcome the little 
obstacles of nature those "two hours" are often very 
interesting. As a rule, one is tired from the day's work 
and if accidents are going to happen they are apt to 
happen at just this time. The early stages of fatigue 
bring on carelessness, and to the experienced man the 
advanced stages of fatigue call for extreme caution. 
Before unloading the canoe, I should have decided just 




FRONT 




TOP 

My Comstock Tent 



where I would place my tent and then I should have 
beached the canoe immediately below the tent if pos- 
sible. As it was, the Yakaboo was sixty yards down 
the beach and upon returning from one of my trips 
to her I found that a spark from the fire had ignited 
my oiled dish bag which was burning with a fierce heat. 
This had started the bag next to it which contained 
my ammunition. With one leap I landed on the pre- 
cious high-power cartridges and began to roll over 
and over in the sand with the burning bag in my 



80 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

arms. What would have happened had one of my 
nine-millimeter shells exploded? I had been careless 
in arranging my outfit upon the sands when I built 
the fire. 

Troubles never come singly — neither do they travel 
in pairs — they flock. I remember the difficulty I had 
in starting the fire. The tin in which I carried my 
matches was absolutely water-tight — I have proved 
that since by submerging it in a bucket of water for 
two days and nights. And yet when I came to open the 
tin I found that the tips of the matches were deliques- 
cent. It was my first experience in tropical cruising 
and I had not learned that the heat of the sun could 
draw the moisture out of the wood of the matches, con- 
dense this moisture on the inside of the tin, and melt 
the tips. I found some safety matches tucked away in 
the middle of my clothes bags and they were dry. This 
became my method of carrying matches in the future. 
The natives carry matches in a bamboo joint with a 
cork for a stopper. 

And now that I have taken you into my first camp 
in the islands I shall tell you briefly of the various parts 
of my outfit as it was finally shaken down for the 
cruise. 

My tent was of the pyramidal form invented by 
Comstock, seven feet high with a base seven feet 
square and having the peak directly over the centre of 
the forward edge. In back was a two foot wall. It 
was made of a waterproof mixture of silk and cotton, 
tinted green, and weighed eight pounds. My mainmast 
served as a tent pole, and for holding down I used 
seventeen pegs made of the native cedar, which is a 




MY CAMP AT MABOUYA. 




LOADED AND READY TO GET OFF. 



KICK 'EM JINNY 81 

tough, hard wood and not heavy. For my purposes 
I have found this the most satisfactory tent for varied 
cruising, as I could use it equally well ashore or rigged 
over the cockpit of the Yakaboo when I slept aboard. 
Let me here offer a little prayer of thanks to Comstock. 
You will find some "improvement" upon his idea in 
almost any outfitter's catalogue and given any name 
but his — one might as well try to improve it as to alter 
a Crosby cat. 

For sleeping I had two single German blankets, 
weighing four pounds each. In place of the usual 
rubber blanket, I used an oiled muslin ground cloth. 
My blankets were folded in the ground cloth in such a 
manner that upon drawing them from the blanket 
bag, I could roll them out on the ground ready for 
turning in. The blanket bag was made of heavy oiled 
canvas with the end turned in and strapped so that even 
when it lay in a cockpit half full of water its contents 
would still remain dry. One blanket used with pa- 
jamas of light duck would have been ample, so far as 
warmth goes, but for sleeping in the cockpit the second 
blanket served as a padding for the hard floor. 

As for clothes, I started out with a heterogeneous 
collection of old trousers, shirts and socks, which, ac- 
cording to the law of the survival of favourites, 
petered out to two pairs of light woollen trousers, two 
light flannel shirts, and two pairs of thin woollen socks. 
I indulged myself in half a dozen new sleeveless 
cotton running shirts, dyed red, B. V. D.'s to corre- 
spond, and a dozen red cotton bandana handkerchiefs. 
For footgear, I carried a pair of heavy- oiled tan shoes 
and pig-skin moccasins. A light Swedish dog-skin coat 



82 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

and a brown felt hat with a fairly wide brim, com- 
pleted my wardrobe. 

For cooking I had the "Ouinnetka" kit, of my own 
design, consisting of three pails, a frypan, two covers, 
a cup, and two spoons, all of aluminum, which nested 
and held a dish cloth and soap. There were no 
handles, a pair of light tongs serving in their stead. 
This kit, which was designed for two-man use, weighed 
a trifle under three pounds. 

The rest of my working outfit consisted of a two 
pound axe, a canoe knife, a small aluminum folding 
candle lantern, two one-gallon water cans, and a ditty 
bag, containing a sight compass, parallel rule, dividers, 
hypodermic outfit, beeswax, and the usual odds and 
ends which one carries. For sailing I used a two-inch 
liquid compass. This working outfit totalled forty- 
three pounds. Had the "butterfly" continued in 
service, its weight would have added a pound and a 
half. 

My food at the outset brought this weight up to 
eighty pounds, but as I later on got down to chocolate, 
erbswurst and the native foods, there was a reduction 
of from twenty to thirty pounds. 

The heaviest single unit of my whole outfit was a 
quarter-plate Graflex, which, with its developing tank 
and six tins of films, added twenty-six pounds. A nine 
millimeter Mannlicher, .22 B.S.A., 38-40 Colt, a deep 
sea rod and reel, shells, and tackle brought the total 
up to 120 pounds. I might as well have left out my 
armament and tackle for when cruising I find little 
time for shooting or fishing — I would rather travel. 

My charts, twelve in number, had first been trimmed 



KICK 'EM JINNY 83 

to their smallest working size and then cut into eight- 
inch by ten-inch panels and mounted on muslin with 
half an inch separating the edges so that they could be 
folded to show uppermost whatever panel I happened 
to be sailing on. The charts with my portfolio I kept 
in a double "bag in the aft end of the cockpit. 

The various parts of my outfit were in bags having 
long necks which could be doubled over and securely 
tied. These were made of unbleached muslin, oiled 
with a mixture of raw and boiled linseed oil and turpen- 
tine. After a wet bit of sailing, when the canoe had at 
times literally gone through the seas and there was 
water in every compartment, it was a great comfort 
to find the entire outfit quite dry. 

The weight of the Yakaboo, with her rig and outfit 
aboard, varied from 260 to 290 pounds — not much 
more than that of an ordinary rowboat. 

Nothing is so unalloyed as the joy of pottering over 
a hot, little fire when the stomach cries out and the 
body tingles with the healthy fatigue of work in the 
open. My spirit was at ease, for the canoe had proven 
herself and even if she did leak, I was getting used to 
that — as one becomes used to a boil on the neck. To 
lie on my blankets — no bed was ever so welcome — and 
to eat and watch the last light fade from the hills of 
Carriacou made me glad that I had been put on this 
earth to live. After supper the companionable purr of 
my faithful pipe made just the conversation to suit my 
mood. The night was soft and balmy, and as I lay 
and watched the brilliant constellations of the tropical 
night the lap-lap of the water on the smooth sands 
lulled me off to sleep. 



,"V->- - 



CHAPTER IV 

CARRIACOU — MAYERO — BEQUIA 

THE next moment I was sitting up, blinking into 
the fiery face of the sun that had slipped around 
the earth and was bobbing up again in the east. 

It was not the sandy beach, the blue stretch of wind- 
livened water nor the picturesque hills of Carriacou, 
rising up before me, that alone brought happiness, for, 
as my eye wandered down the beach, I saw the buoyant, 
jaunty Yakaboo, and there came over me the happy 
satisfaction that the cruise was mine. My eye beheld 
her with the fondness of a parent for its child — if 
only she did not leak. 

Not until I had cooked and eaten breakfast and 
was stowing my outfit into the canoe did I think of the 
mascot I had brought with me from Caille. I found 
his house in the forward end of the cockpit, unglued 
by the wash of the day before and empty. I am not 
sentimental by nature and I did not mourn his black 
hairy little body, which no doubt, by this time, was 
being carried far out into the Caribbean. I did thank 
him, or rather her, for I found out afterwards that it 
was a female, for the service she had rendered as a 
mascot in my sail around Kick 'em Jinny. I did not 
know, in fact, that she was still with the ship and 
would be my mascot for some time to come. 

8 4 



CARRIACOU— MAYERO— BEQUIA 85 

When I ran alongside the jetty of the pretty little 
town of Hillsboro, on the shores of Carriacou, a blue- 
jacketed sailor pointed to where I might beach the 
canoe, and said, "Mr. Smith is expecting you in his 
office," a prosaic remark, more fitting to the tenth 
floor above Broadway than to the beach of a West 
Indian island. I had scarcely beached the canoe and 
was walking across the hot stretch, curling my toes un- 
der me to ease my soles on the blistering sands, when 
Mr. Smith met me, a tall, spare figure, accentuated in 
its leanness by the bulky helmet of the tropics. I liked 
him instantly. He was a man of about fifty, strong, 
energetic and young for his age. There was a bit of 
a brogue in his speech — he was an Irishman — with a 
university training and cultured as such men usually 
are, but still with an Irishman's fondness for the world. 
Perhaps my liking was part of a mutual feeling for he 
immediately asked me to spend a few days with him at 
Top Hill. A cosy berth was found for the Yakaboo 
in a boatshed near by, built, for the sake of coolness, 
like the cotton ginnery of St. George's, with open 
sides. 

Carriacou might be called the Utopia of the Grena- 
dines. It is here that the work of one man stands out 
and is not lost. Officially Whitfield Smith is known 
as the Commissioner,* in reality he is a potentate, while 
among his people he is known as "Papa." Paternal 
is the rule of this man, which, after all, is the way all 
governing should be done. And still with his paternal 
feeling and his kindness, there is no undermining 

* Whitfield Smith has been Commissioner at Grand Turk since 
1915. 



86 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

familiarity. Justice, one feels, holds out her delicately 
balanced scales and there is no chance for her eye to 
pierce the blindfold. As in all the West Indies, there 
is very little crime, petty theft and small squabbles 
being the principal offences. Swearing is a punishable 
offence and one hears but little profanity. The detec- 
tion of crime is no disgrace and one does not lose caste 
upon being haled into court. Let the prisoner be con- 
victed and imprisoned and he is forever disgraced. 

The curse of the black man is laziness and the curse 
of the islands is the ease with which life may be sus- 
tained. To these may be added a warped idea regard- 
ing the tilling of the soil. There is deep rooted from 
the times of the old planters the West Indian notion 
that no gentleman dare use his hands in manual labour. 
The West Indian negro who has received a small 
smattering of an education spurns hard work and goes 
to the towns, where he can obtain a position as a 
clerk in a store. In this way the fields come to be 
neglected and labour is actually imported for the tilling 
of the soil. The black man wants to attain his estate 
by revolution — not physical but mental — while this 
can only come by a long process of evolution. In his 
period of transition he should be guided by the highest 
type of white man, broad minded, virile, keen and 
human. Given authority to govern a small community, 
such as that of Carriacou, and the right man's influence 
for good among the people is infinite. The ease with 
which he can accomplish reforms is astonishing. For 
instance, on my first day at Carriacou I remarked to 
Smith that there seemed to be scarcely any mosquitoes, 
indeed, I had not seen any, a remarkable circumstance 



CARRIACOU— MAYERO— BEQUIA 87 

in view of the fact that the land immediately to the 
southeast of the town was low and swampy. 

"You will have a hard time finding any on the island 
now, although we have a few in the rainy season." 

"Kerosene and mosquito bar?" I asked. 

"No, million-fish. In Barbados," continued Smith, 
"it was noticed that on certain fresh-water ponds there 
seemed to be no mosquitoes. Upon investigation it 
was found that these ponds were the habitat of the 
'tap minnow' (Girardinus poeciloides) or 'million- 
fish,' as it is called, and that these small fellows ate 
the larvae of the mosquito as they rose to the surface 
of the water. The fish were introduced to other ponds, 
water tanks and rain barrels, with the result that there 
was a considerable reduction of the pest. I sent for 
some of the fish,* and put them on exhibition in a large 
glass jar in my office. Then I asked the people to 
bring in all the larvae they could find floating on the 
top of the water in rain barrels, tanks and so on. As 
soon as the larvae were put in the jar, the million-fish 
swam to the surface and gobbled them up. Then I told 
the people that if they put million-fish in all the places 
where mosquitoes breed, the eggs would be eaten up 
and there would be no more malaria, filaria, and so 
forth. It was the best kind of an object lesson. The 
fish were put in all the small ponds, tanks and barrels 
and they multiplied till there were enough to distribute 
all over the island." 

In a similarly easy manner he disposed of a trouble- 
some labour problem. The British government allows 

* The males are an inch long, silvey-grey in color and with a red 
spot on each side near the head. The females are about an inch and 
a quarter long but have no red spot. 



88 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

six hundred pounds to be spent yearly for the mainte- 
nance and building of roads in Carriacou. The work is 
done by native women who receive nine pence a day 
or eighteen cents in our money. Smith found that 
there were more women dependent upon the road work 
for their livelihood than he could employ at one time 
and the solution was suggested by the so-called 'pater- 
nal system' used in St. Thomas. He secured a list of 
all the road workers on the island. Of this list he 
works forty each week, by rote, and in this way the 
government road money is fairly distributed. He is 
more like the owner of a large estate than an employe 
of the British government ruling a small island for a 
salary. I decided that there might be worse places to 
live in than Carriacou and that with a man like Smith 
on the island one's mind would not go altogether 
fallow. Perhaps my liking for the island was strength- 
ened when I walked into a neat little store, not unlike 
the kind one finds in a new suburb of a progressive city. 
Here I could buy small cans of white lead and paint, 
commodities I could not find in St. George's, and I 
found sandpaper that had not lain in mouldy disuse 
since the times of the pirates. 

As the day cooled into evening, I walked out to the 
end of the jetty to contemplate the sunset and smoke a 
quiet pipe. To the west Mabouya, where I had 
camped the night before, hung a persistent little patch 
which resisted the efforts of the trade to wash it away 
towards the horizon of ragged clouds. To the north 
jagged Union rose, the highest of all the Grenadines — ■ 
but here my peace came to an end. 

"What is your reputation?" broke upon my ears. I 



CARRIACOU— MAYERO— BEQUIA 89 

faced about to find an officious native in a white linen 
suit, cane and panama hat standing by me. While I 
was groping feverishly in my mind for a suitable reply, 
a native policeman stepped up and hustled off his com- 
patriot before I should forever disgrace myself in this 
island of soft language. I was no longer in the mood 
for sunsets and I turned shorewards to find Smith pre- 
paring for the drive to his home at Top Hill. The 
twilight merged into the pale light of the new moon 
and as we slowly climbed the hills Smith talked about 
his island. 

"That is our botanical garden," he said, pointing out 
an acre or two of planted land that looked like a truck 
garden, "limes, water lemons, and a flower garden so 
that we can make up a bouquet when we have a 
wedding, you know." 

On our way we met a Yellow Carib from Demerara. 
He was the second Carib that I had seen and joy came 
with the thought that in Saint Vincent I should find 
more of them, the last remnant of the Yellow Carib in 
the Lesser Antilles. 

We had no sooner alighted in the courtyard at Top 
Hill than Smith bounded ahead of me and, standing 
on the top step of his verandah waited for me with 
outstretched hand, and said, "Welcome to Top Hill." 
There was a warmth about it that I shall never forget. 

With us was MacQueen, an engineer, who might 
have been taken out of one of Kipling's Indian stories. 
The two were in a mood for stories that night, stories, 
for the most part, of the natives, showing their craze 
for the spectacular, their excitability, and the ease with 
which they can be fooled. 



90 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

"Did you ever," — there was a slight burr in the 
"ever," — "did you everr hear the one about New 
Year's Eve at Goyave, Mac?" 

"Not in recent years," said Mac — and we have the 
story. 

"Times had been prosperous and the priest was 
looking forward to a large contribution at the mass 
which was to see the Old Year out and the New Year 
in. He had arranged an impressive ceremony, not the 
least part of which was the shooting of fireworks on the 
precise stroke of twelve. Rockets were planted in the 
churchyard behind the gravestones, and a boy was sta- 
tioned to touch off the fuses at the given time. The 
church was packed and in the dim candle light the priest 
struck awe into the souls of his congregation as he told 
them what a hell they were surely going to if they did 
not repent. He spoke with the fervour of a man 
working for that which was nearest his heart — money. 

"The emotional natives became conscience-stricken 
as they thought, childlike, of their many misdeeds and 
there was the terror of hell in that blubbering crowd. 
But there was a chance — a very small one, in truth — 
and the priest pointed to that heaven for which they 
could make a fresh start with the coming of the New 
Year. As he raised his hand aloft, the boy thought it 
was the signal for the fireworks. In the dramatic 
pause that followed the priest's warning, the awesome 
silence was intensified by the spasmodic snivelling of 
the people. 

"Suddenly there was a blinding flash, and a hissing 
rocket spurned its way heavenward. Another rocket, 
and then a bomb exploded. The boy was doing his 



I 




CARRIACOU— MAYERO— BEQUIA 91 

part well. To the frightened congregation the end of 
the world must be at hand. With a roar of terror, they 
rushed from the church taking their pennies with 
them." 

"O Lord," said Smith, the tears rolling down his 
cheeks, "the poor priest was out the price of the fire- 
works and lost his contribution." 

"No doubt," said Mac, "he more than made up for 
it in confession fees for he knew that his people were 
uneasy of conscience." 

"And talking about graveyards reminds me of a 
burial we once had during the rainy season," continued 
Smith. "A man had died of fever one hot afternoon 
and I decided to have him buried that night. He was 
laid out and I ordered a carpenter to make a box for 
him. By ten o'clock the box was ready and we started 
down the hill. There was no moon and the clouds shut 
out the starlight. It was black as pitch and before the 
days when we had a good road up from town. There 
were three of us carrying the corpse, myself, the doc- 
tor and my man, while the priest walked on ahead 
chanting the Resurrection. We had no sooner started 
than it began to rain. Not an ordinary rain or a 
shower, but the torrential downpour of the tropics. In 
a short time the roadway was a slippery downward 
surface over which we were fighting to keep the box 
with its contents from getting away from us. All this 
time that lazy beggar was walking ahead of us chanting 
in a loud voice for us to follow. The doctor, who was 
a crusty old Scotchman, slipped and fell, pulling the box 
down with him. Then, before we could take it up 
again, he gave it a push and it coasted down the hill, 



92 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

catching up the priest on its way. As the black-robed 
priest disappeared astride the coffin, the doctor yelled, 
'Gae 'lang wid ye and yeer Resurrection.' ' 

The next day was the fifth of the moon. In these 
latitudes where the moon seems to have a decided 
influence upon the weather, there is a strong tendency 
towards squalls on or about the fifth day of the new 
moon. Captain Woolworth, in his book "Nigh onto 
Sixty Years at Sea," mentions the fact that whenever 
he ran into trouble it was almost invariably on the fifth 
day of the new moon. Most of his voyages were made 
in the tropics. Smith called my attention to the weather 
on this day and I was careful to note every fifth day 
during the rest of my six months in the tropics. Almost 
without fail, from the third to the sixth day and gen- 
erally on the fifth day of the first quarter there was 
trouble at sea. Conditions generally were unsettled. 
Heavy squalls would blow down like the beginnings of 
small hurricanes. Often I could count four or five 
squalls at one time whipping up as many spots on the 
sea to a fury of white caps and spindrift. There is 
something uncanny in the way in which the moon seems 
to affect the weather in these parts and I have often 
thought that the superstition of the negro is not to 
be wondered or sneered at. 

The next day the weather was settled and continued 
so for the rest of that quarter. 

While overhauling my outfit which I had dumped 
in a corner of Smith's office I again came upon my little 
mascot. I was untying a bag containing a few small 
bits of Carib pottery, which I had dug up near 
Sauteurs in Grenada, when a black fuzzy object 



CARRIACOU— MAYERO— BEQUIA 93 

jumped from the heap of duffle before me and 
scampered across the floor. 

"Hello! Who's your friend?" asked Smith. 

"Oh, that's my mascot," I answered, as I dashed 
after her on all fours. 

"Devil a fine mascot! Why don't you get a nice 
loving snake? Here! Take this!" said Smith, as he 
handed me a paper box cover. Having recaptured the 
tarantula I told the story of the luck she had brought 
me on my sail around Kick 'em Jinny. I was afraid that 
she might get into my blanket some time and bite me, 
so, I took her life and carried her hairy carcass in a 
cotton-padded pasteboard box. I believe that after 
death her spirit hovered over the masts of the Yakaboo 
and that she bore me no ill will, for luck stayed with 
me for the rest of the cruise. 

Having remained over the fifth day, I sailed for new 
islands and landed on picturesque Frigate, which lies 
off Union. Here I found an abundance of wood and 
was soon enjoying the crackle of a little blaze. It was 
good to be a Robinson Crusoe again, if only for a few 
hours. Before me on the beach lay the Yakaboo, her 
porpoise-like body suggesting more of the fish than the 
boat. Across a shallow bay, floored with white coral 
sand that gave it the appearance of a marble floored 
pool, Union rose a thousand feet. 

I could make out the houses of a village, climbing 
above the shores of the bay, the most remarkable of 
its kind in the whole range of the Lesser Antilles, for 
I found that here one may see a thousand natives, 
living in small huts clustered close together, in exactly 
the way their ancestors lived two hundred years ago, 



94 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

when they were first brought over from Africa. One 
change only from the early days — that of clothing. 
The men wear trousers and shirts and the women wear 
skirts. Remove their civilised rags and you have them 
as they were in Africa. I have heard that in some of 
the smaller and even more out of the way cays of the 
Grenadines the natives live among themselves with 
no clothing but the breech cloth. May the eye of my 
camera see them thus in their natural state on some 
future cruise. 

While I was cooking my chocolate, a little open boat 
had been sailing down the wind from the eastward. As 
she beached close to the Yakaboo, two black men 
jumped out of her while something in the stern 
unfolded its attenuated length and I recognised 
Walker, famous as the tallest man throughout these 
islands. I knew him before I saw him — that is all of 
him — for it takes two looks to get in his full height. 
My eye wandered up and down his length as one views 
a tall waterfall close by. 

The British government had but lately taken over 
Union Island from private owners and it had been 
Walker's duty to survey and divide up the land so that 
it can be sold in small parcels to the natives. With 
the strength and perseverance of one charmed, 
Walker has carried his transit in the fierce noon heat 
and cut his lines through the brush. The soft tissue of 
his body has long since run off in perspiration so that 
there is little left for the sun to work upon. He goes 
about his work unmindful, wearing a flannel shirt with 
a double thickness over his spine and a large hat, which 
gives him the appearance of an animated umbrella. 



CARRIACOU— MAYERO— BEQUIA 95 

He has other dimensions besides height I found, one of 
them being breadth of heart. 

No introduction was necessary for I had long since 
heard of the tall Walker, and he had expected my 
coming long before he made out the butterfly rig of 
the Yakaboo zig-zag its way up to the beach on Frigate. 

During our conversation I admitted some knowledge 
of drafting, upon which Walker said, "Come over to 
Union and help me finish a map of the island and then 
we can take off a few days for a little loaf." And so 
it came to pass that my little green tent remained in 
its bag in the forehold of the canoe and I became for 
a time an inhabitant of Union. 

A span of not much more than three nautical miles 
separates the islands of Carriacou and Union and yet 
the natives of Union differ from those of her neighbour 
by nearly as many hundred years. Up to a short time 
before I landed on the island, Union had been owned 
by one man or one family from the time of its dis- 
covery. There had been one house in which the owner 
lived — on the top of a hill. It was now occupied by 
Rupert Otway, who represented the British govern- 
ment. Another house stood "down de bay," in which 
the overseer had lived while the rest of the population 
— slaves — had lived huddled together in the towns of 
Ashton and Clifton. 

In 1838 the slaves were freed and from that time 
the prosperity of the island began to wane. But the 
blacks continued to live there, holding no property, a 
few of them working half-heartedly for the white man 
and the rest dragging out a mere existence from the 
fish of the sea. Now the government has bought the 



96 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

island and the ideal thing is being done — that is, the 
island is being divided into small plots, which are held 
out with every inducement for the native to buy. The 
cash price is cheap, from four to eight pounds per 
acre. There is also a system of payments arranged so 
that the most impoverished native can take up a small 
piece of land and from it work out the price to pay 
for it. 

Not the least charm of these islands are the small 
private forts which one finds hidden in the bush which 
has overgrown the top of some hill of vantage, leaving 
scant evidence to the casual eye of some small pile of 
heavy masonry, the name and origin of which may have 
been long since forgotten. At the time of the 
Napoleonic Wars, when these islands were immensely 
rich in sugar, the estate owners were forced to defend 
themselves from the depredations of the privateers 
who infested these waters like the sharks that swim in 
them. For this purpose the old estate owners built 
private forts, one of which I found on Union, undis- 
turbed in its state of dilapidation, four hundred feet 
above the sea, on the top of an isolated hill so over- 
grown with cactus that we had to cut our way to it. 

Otway gave me a temporary Man Friday and after 
an hour's work with our cutlasses we had cleared away 
enough of the cactus so that we could walk about on 
the rampart. The top was five-sided, not an exact 
pentagon, about fifty feet in diameter. Here were four 
old cannon, lying as they had long ago sunk through 
their rotting carriages to rest, still pointing in the direc- 
tion of their old enemies. One aimed at Mayero, two 
miles away, another covered the channel to the east, 




CASSAVA CAKES DRYING ON A ROOF AT MAYERO. RUINS OF THE 
OLD ESTATE HOUSE OF THE ST. HILAIRES IN THE BACKGROUND. 




DRYING THE CASSAVA, ISLE DE RONDE. 



CARRIACOU— MAYERO— BEQUIA 97 

a third at one time dropped its death on Prune, while 
the fourth guarded the little bay where the ruins of 
the old storehouse or cabaret still stands. The romance 
of it all seemed intensified in the fierce noonday sun 
and it required little imagination to picture the days 
when fighting was an earnest sport. In the center stood 
the stepping for the flagstaff, the staff itself doubtless 
long since appropriated for the mast of some native 
sloop that may even now be resting deep down at the 
foot of Kick 'em Jinny. As the negro uses his horse 
till it drops, so he uses his sloop till at last a fierce 
squall gets him — "all standing" and she sinks with her 
fear-paralysed crew, leaving no sign, but a hatch or a 
broken bit of spar which drifts away towards the 
setting sun.* 

Under the steps, which descend from the rampart, 
was the powder magazine, still intact, resembling an 
old-fashioned bake oven — and this reminded me that 
I was due at Government house for luncheon. 

The next day as I tried to leave Union, faulty navi- 
gation on the part of the skipper caused the center- 
board of the Yakaboo to run afoul of a reef. The 
Yakaboo got the worst of it and I had to put back for 
repairs. I was on my way to Mayero. Both Walker 
and Otway were glad to see me back in Union and no 
sooner had I landed than they ordered their man to 
carry the canoe up the hill to a shady place, where a 
native carpenter could relieve me of the work of repair- 
ing her. This done, Otway seemed to remember that 

* In nearly all cases of loss at sea in these waters, there remains 
not the slightest trace of the missing boat or crew and the relatives 
blubber for a day or two, murmur, "It wuz de will ob de Lard" and 
the tale becomes history. 



98 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

he owed Mayero a visit in his official capacity, Walker 
decided to take a day off, and the three of us sailed 
across in the little government sloop. 

Our landing on Mayero was a strange performance. 
The beach was steep-to with a fathom of water less 
than a boat's length from dry sand. We threw out 
an anchor astern and then ran the sloop inshore till 
her bowsprit hung over the surf. Taking off our 
clothes, we tied them together with our belts and threw 
them high up on the beach. Three splashes followed 
and we crawled ashore and dressed. After a climb of 
about fifteen minutes we gained the top of the island, 
where "Miss Jane-Rose" rules her little domain. 

Mayero is one of those romance islands where in 
its stagnation one can trace a past once beautiful, now 
pathetic. At the time of the unrest in France, a cadet 
branch of the Saint-Hilaire family came to this island, 
thrived, and finally died with the ebbing fortunes of 
sugar cane. The last descendant of this famous old 
family, one of which was a lady-in-waiting to the 
Empress Josephine at Malmaison, still governs the 
island under a sort of feudal system. Her name is 
Jane-Rose de Saint-Hilaire,* and she is a bright, keen 
woman of about fifty, who rules her subjects with a 
firm hand and who talks well. The two hundred 
inhabitants, more or less, representing eighty families, 
on the island, are, for the most part, descendants of 
the slaves of the old Saint-Hilaires, and one can still 
see in their faces the vanishing trace of the French 
aristocracy like a thin outcropping of gold in the baser 
rock. 

*Miss Jane-Rose died in Feb., 1915. 



CARRIACOU— MAYERO—BEQUIA 99 

Each family is allowed to erect a hut free of charge 
of any kind. This hut is roofed with Guinea grass 
straw and sided with wattles, cut on the island, and 
plastered with mud. Most of the huts are floored with 
American lumber. Each able-bodied inhabitant is 
allowed as many acres as he or she cares to cultivate, 
on. the metayer or share system. By this arrangement 
of land tenure, at the time of harvest the produce of 
the land, cotton and cocoa, is divided equally between 
the proprietress and the tenants. The people used 
formerly to give their share of the cotton to Miss 
Jane-Rose to dispose of for them, but they now sell it 
direct to the British government at better prices. The 
fisherman reserve for the proprietress a portion of 
each day's catch. 

The people are essentially French and no religion 
other than the Roman Catholic is tolerated. Miss 
Jane-Rose officiates as priestess and occasionally a 
priest from Carriacou comes to celebrate mass. She 
also acts the part of mediator or judge in many dis- 
putes where no grave issues are involved. The peo- 
ple, generally, are a law-abiding lot and in eight years 
only two cases of importance have come within the 
jurisdiction of Whitfield Smith at Carriacou. 

The little church, close to her house, was opened 
for our benefit, and it was with great pride that she 
exhibited the altar and the painted inscriptions on the 
walls. The building was nothing better than a wooden 
shed, an ant-eaten sanctuary into which small birds 
fly to nest through the holes in the roof. As we talked, 
a pathetic figure stole in to have a glimpse of "de mon 
in de boat," and to furtively touch his clothes to feel 



100 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

of what strange stuff they might be made. She was a 
little woman of sixty or more, not shrunken, for that 
would imply wrinkles, but lessened in size, as though 
she were slowly evaporating. Her face was still the 
face of youth, the sepia etching of a French beauty of 
the old days, the skin dark, somewhat transparent and 
of fine texture. It was a face beautiful and shapely in 
every line, the only negro feature that I could detect 
being the darkness of her skin. She seemed like some 
incautious mortal, under the spell of a Circe, with an 
appeal in her eyes to a deliverer who would never come. 

With a parting gift of cassava cakes, taken from 
their drying place on the roof of one of the near-by 
huts, we scrambled down to the beach where we 
undressed and swam to the sloop, holding our clothes 
clear of the water. The wind had dropped with the 
setting of the sun, and we drifted back to Union in 
the moonlight before a soft, balmy air that carried 
no chill. 

The next day I was more successful in leaving the 
island. Walker insisted upon accompanying me in his 
sloop to pilot me, as he said, through the intricate 
reefs. It afterwards turned out that he doubted the 
ability of the Yakaboo to make the passage to Bequia 
in safety. After three hours of cautious sailing, we 
ran ashore on Cannouan to cook our luncheon. Here 
it was that Walker taught me a new trick. The natives 
of the island had come down to have a close scrutiny of 
the strange man who was sailing about the islands in 
u de canoe," and I had come to the conclusion that 
their presence was far more picturesque than desirable. 
They handled everything, examined my dishes, and one 



CARRIACOU— MAYERO— BEQUIA 101 

of them even started to open my food bags. I swore 
at them, but they did not seem to understand. To my, 
"What the devil shall I do with these people?" 

"Oh, I'll fix 'em," said Walker, at which he swept 
one arm toward them and then pointing at me yelled: 

"Get out ! or 'de mon' will put a curse on you." 

The words were magic. Profanity had made no 
impression, but the putting on of a curse by one who 
bordered on the supernatural — that was something 
different! With one bound they cleared the place of 
our nooning and with another they were in the brush 
where for the rest of our stay I could see the tops of 
their woolly heads and the gleam of white eyeballs, 
curiosity and fear holding them balanced, as it were, 
at the nearest point of safety. After that, whenever 
I was troubled by curious natives I repeated Walker's 
magic formula, "Get out! Or I'll put a curse on you." 

Six o'clock found the canoe and the sloop three and 
one half miles from West Cape on Bequia with a 
strong lee tide, that is, off shore, and the wind 
dropping. The sloop, being heavier with her rock 
ballast and her crew of three, had outsailed the much 
lighter canoe in the choppy seas and was leading some- 
what to windward. Just as the sun was setting, I saw 
a number of fins coming down towards the canoe. I 
now got the greatest fright of my whole cruise. All 
my past experience as to the cowardice of the shark 
vanished, leaving a void into which fear rushed as into 
a vacuum. My imaginative brain could only attach 
those fins to a school of huge sharks, some of them 
probably larger than the canoe I was sailing in. 

Of what avail would my seven inches of freeboard be 



102 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

to one of those fellows should he choose to slide his 
ugly head over the gunwale? Of what avail my arma- 
ment of two rifles, one revolver, and one axe? At a 
maximum I had a bullet each for nineteen sharks and 
perhaps my trusty axe would finish up one or two, but 
here was a horde descending upon me. I remembered 
how sharks were in the habit of jumping clear of the 
water and tearing out the blubber on a whale's back; 
at any rate, I thought, I would finish one or two of 
them before they dragged my mangled form into the 
sea and so forth — oh, happy moment! 

There was not the slightest use in altering my course 
to avoid them, so I held on and the next moment was 
in the midst of a school of snorting, playing porpoises. 
I could have jumped overboard and hugged them. I 
swore that the fun of graining them from the swaying 
footropes would never again be mine, nor would I 
even use their oil on my boots. To me the porpoise is 
henceforth a sacred animal. There were hundreds of 
them in the school and among them were blackfish of 
a considerable size. Playful and curious, they would 
make a dash with torpedo speed and then dive under 
the canoe or swerve around the ends, fascinating me 
with their wonderful grace and ease. One of them, 
making a slight miscalculation, bumped the centerboard 
and nearly upset the canoe. This made me think it 
safer to run off the wind and travel with them, present- 
ing the edge of the board rather than the side. And 
so I kept them company till they had had their fun and 
resumed their travels. 

Some of them would jump clear of the water and 
with a half turn in the air would land on their backs 




ai -1'* - 

PREPARING TO LEAVE UNION. WALKER SITTING ON THE RAIL 
OF HIS SLOOP AND REGARDING THE "YAKABOO" DOUBTFULLY. 




COMING BACK FOR REPAIRS — SIX MEN DOING THE WORK OF 
TWO. 



CARRIACOU— MAYERO— BEQUIA 103 

with a resounding splash. It was their way of scratch- 
ing their backs and I could almost see a grin of delight 
on their mouths. As they left me, twilight gave way, 
and I was alone in the starry night. Walker in the 
sloop was somewhere to windward — out of sight. I 
had taken in sail and was now rowing, using for a 
guide Orion's Belt, suspended above the swaying top 
of the stubby little mizzen mast. As the moon rose, I 
could read the compass. 

After an hour or so I must have fallen asleep, still 
rowing, for I awoke at nine o'clock, the oars still in 
my hands, to find that I was off my course and about 
a mile from West Cape, which now loomed up black 
in the distance. The current had swung the canoe 
around little by little as I had ceased to take notice of 
the compass till I was rowing northward instead of 
nearly due east. In another hour I was headed into 
Admiralty Bay in the lee of Bequia. 

By that same law of compensation which I have 
already mentioned, I was now rewarded for a hard 
day of travel at sea. I shall never forget the beauty 
of that night as I slipped into the easier waters under 
the long arm of West Cape, which reaches from 
Bequia three miles out to sea. The moon was high 
in a brilliant sky across which the trade clouds rolled 
like a curtain, on their never-ending march to the 
Spanish Main. The Cape stood lofty and dark and 
bold and I could see the surf rise from the rocks, high 
into the air, white and forbidding like a living thing. 

As the moon swung over its zenith, I could make 
out the little huts and trees on the island as in daytime 
and finally I saw a small fire on the beach, near where I 



104. ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

judged the village to be. It was half-past eleven when 
I rowed up to the jetty, which stood out into the water 
like an immense centipede. The squeak of my row- 
locks betrayed my presence and the natives, who were 
lying on the beach by the fire, rushed out onto the 
jetty. They had been waiting for me. Then came the 
usual babble of voices and torrent of questions. 

Their curiosity was unappeased for I tied my 
painter to a sloop at anchor near the jetty and even 
as I was preparing to turn in, a native policeman drove 
the crowd inshore. 

The Yakaboo was indeed a real "live-aboard-ship" 
and had my stove been in commission I could have 
cooked my supper in the cockpit. In fact, I could have 
lived aboard indefinitely as long as food and water 
held out, for I could rig up my tent over the cockpit 
in the event of rain. Cold meat, crackers, and cool 
fresh water made an excellent repast for a starved 
and healthy stomach. 

One who has never done this sort of thing can 
scarcely appreciate my sense of complete luxury as I 
lay in my blankets in the snug cockpit of the Yakaboo. 
And always at the mention of the Yakaboo I think of 
her as a thing of life. There was scarcely any motion 
in the quiet waters of the bay, yet I could feel her 
buoying me up, as though I were resting on a small 
cloud suspended in mid-air, a Mahomet's coffin. Then 
as I rolled over to lie on my side she would give grace- 
fully — she was always there under me, holding me up 
out of the sea — my water cradle. A great contentment 
came over me as I lay contemplating the magical 



CARRIACOU— MAYERO— BEQUIA 105 

harbour into which I had found my way like a tired 
gull. 

I had hardly fallen asleep when Walker sailed along- 
side and awoke me. He had lost track of me in the 
darkness and had been looking for me till the moon- 
light had shown the Yakaboo crawling into Admiralty 
harbour. He sent his two men ashore and I passed 
him some food and one of my blankets. He left again 
at five in the morning with some food which I insisted 
upon his taking and a better opinion of the ability of 
the Yakaboo. There are few men I should care to 
have with me in the open. Walker is one of them. 

With the sun came the incessant babble of an increas- 
ing crowd on shore. Sleep was impossible and I landed 
at nine o'clock. Before I had turned in the night 
before, I asked the crowd whether "Old Bill" Wallace, 
the Nestor of whalemen in the Grenadines, was still 
alive. Yes, they told me, he lived in the hills beyond 
"Tony Gibbon's." 

"Old Bill" came down as I was cooking breakfast 
over a coal-pot in the parsonage. (When I end this 
life I shall go with an infinite debt to lighthouse keep- 
ers, Scotchmen and English parsons.) I gave him a 
letter I had carried from Boston in my portfolio. It 
was from a shipmate of his son, who had been lost at 
sea. In it were two photographs of young Wallace on 
the next but last of his voyages, showing his active 
young figure at the "mincing" board and in the cross 
trees. As the old man opened the letter a look of sur- 
prise came over him and he held the photographs in 
trembling hands. It was like a message from the dead, 
almost, to see his son at work on the whaler, and a 



106 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

far-off look came into his eyes as he stood there, 
brought back so suddenly to the vague tragedy that had 
been the hardest burden of a hard life. 

"I am old and broken down now, and not much use," 
he said, "but as long as these old hands can work I'll 
keep on going till I slip my moorings and get off on my 
last cruise." Hard work and a rough life had been 
the lot of this relic of a fast vanishing type of deep- 
water sailor. In that romance age of fifteen he had 
spewed the silver spoon from his mouth and left it 
on the hearth of his Scotland home to taste his first 
sting of bitterness under the care of a Yankee skipper. 

He finally drifted to Bequia with his earnings and 
bought a large sugar plantation. But the seafaring 
man rarely prospers on land. The failure of sugar 
cane in the islands, followed by a disastrous hurricane, 
brought an end to his few years of ease, and he had to 
turn to the humpbacking that he had taught the 
natives, "jumbie crabs," he called them. Now, too old 
to go whaling, he is rusting away like the ships he used 
to sail, waiting to "slip his moorings." 

In the afternoon, I climbed the hill to his house, 
rebuilt in a corner of the ruins of his former home, as 
if backed off in a corner by fate. There I met his 
blue-eyed little wife and drank with them the bitter 
tea that had simmered on the coals since morning. It 
was many years since he had talked to one from the 
States and as the afternoon grew old his enthusiasm 
over the adventures of his life rose to the fitting climax 
of a hurricane off Delos in Africa. 

The rickety chair would no longer hold him and he 
stood in the doorway, dark against the levelled rays of 



CARRIACOU— MAYERO—BEQUIA 107 

the setting sun, a fiery, Quixotic figure, brandishing his 
cutlass to illustrate how, as a mate on the almost 
doomed ship, he had stood years ago in that tense 
moment with uplifted axe ready to cut the weather 
shrouds. She was "six points higher than Jordan," 
he had thought, as she lay with her lee rail under water, 
not a rag up, held by the force of the wind against her 
spars. Then — "be th' powers o' Malkenny's cat," 
she had righted herself and the ship was saved without 
losing a stick. I can feel his enthusiasm now and I 
wonder if, in the eternal fitness of things, the good 
saint will promote him to captaincy on the ghost of 
that ship on the seas of the world to come. 

There was a pathetic touch in his farewell to me, 
for I had brought back to him the sweet memories of a 
gallant son. I left him still standing in the doorway, 
the cutlass hanging forgotten from one arm, the other 
around the shoulder of his mild little wife. 

One hears a great deal of the tropical sunset, but 
to me there is nothing to compare with the moon- 
light of these islands, and it was a continual source of 
pleasure to wander about in the hills in the light of the 
full moon. There is a colour effect that I have found 
in no other place. The blue sky as in daytime, but soft- 
ened, with the motion of the large, white, fleecy clouds 
in contrast. The sea a darker blue with the pattern 
of the coral reefs showing up yellow and brown. The 
island itself a subdued blue framed in the thin line 
of white foam on the rocks. Distance was here and as 
I stood high above the bay I could see the islands I 
had left, Cannouan, Mayero, Union, high and dark, 
and even Carriacou, thirty miles away. 



108 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

On my way down to the bay, I passed a group of 
little native huts, where a more or less heated discussion 
was in progress. 

"He no sail in de da' — he floy in de noight! You 
tink dat li'le boat go in de water? Oh, my!" and I 
realised that I was the topic of conversation. As 
I neared them, one said, "O Lard, HE come now." 

I now understood why I had been so quickly discov- 
ered when I rowed into the harbour the night before. 
One of the natives, with a powerful ship's telescope 
"obtained" from some Yankee whaler, had picked 
up my queer rig, late in the afternoon, as I was 
approaching Bequia and had seen my sails go down 
shortly after sunset. They knew that the wind was 
dropping and they believed that I had spread out my 
sails parallel to the water and flown. In fact, the 
common belief in Bequia was that the sailing was only 
a bluff and that I really covered my distances by flying 
at night. 

So they had built a bonfire and were waiting for 
me on the beach, where they knew I would land. Sure 
enough, I did land there, but before they had had a 
chance to see me fly, I had folded the wings of the 
Yakaboo and was rowing. They could not understand 
how such a small boat could live in their seas. The 
cut of the sails suggested wings and the natural deduc- 
tion was, "He no sail, he floy." 

I was a man apart and I found out later that the 
natives regarded me with a great deal of awe and 
thought that I carried some sort of imp or fetish with 
me in the canoe. Perhaps I did. Was there not a 
gru-gru nut the postmaster at Goyave had given me, 




THE EFFECT OF THE TRADE WIND ON THE VEGETATION. BEQU1A. 




"OLD BILL" AND THE SKIPPER OF THE "YAKABOO.' 



CARRIACOU— MAYERO— BEQUIA 109 

and how about my little dead mascot? Except for 
the more intelligent men, they were afraid of me, but 
curiosity would get the better of their fear and as I 
talked to them I would now and then feel the furtive 
fingers of some of the bolder ones touching my clothes 
as one would a priest's robe. 

It was one afternoon, while I was visiting a "try- 
works" on the south shore, where they were boiling 
oil from my friend the porpoise, that I espied a little 
boat with a peculiar rig coming down from the East. 
The natives confirmed my guess, it was a Carib canoe. 
By a lucky chance the canoe beached almost at my feet. 
There were four Indians in her and I immediately 
questioned them as to the settlement at Sandy Point, 
on the north end of Saint Vincent. Yes, they were 
from the Carib Country and would be glad to have 
me come up and live with them as long as I wished. 
What a joy it was to see the lighter colour of their 
skins, their straight black hair, and thin lips. They 
reminded me of the Japanese and my eye did not miss 
the ease with which they carried themselves and 
handled their canoe. 

The next morning I said, "Yakaboo," to the Grena- 
dines and laid my course for Saint Vincent and the 
Carib Country. 



CHAPTER V 

CLIMBING THE SOUFRIERE OF SAINT VINCENT 

MY entry into the port of Kingstown was spectacu- 
lar, but hardly to my liking. The mail sloop 
from Bequia had spread the news of my coming and 
as I neared the shore, I saw that the jetty and the 
beach were black with black people. A rain squall 
came down from the hills, but it did not seem to 
dampen the interest of the people nor dim the eye of 
my camera. I had scarcely stepped out of the canoe 
when the crowd rushed into the water, lifted her on 
their shoulders and she continued on her way through 
a sea of bobbing heads. Direct was her course for 
the gate of the building which contains the govern- 
ment offices and she at last came to rest in a shaded 
corner of the patio, where the police are drilled. As 
I followed in her wake, I said to myself, "She may 
be without rudder and without skipper and still find 
her way to a quiet berth." We were in a land-locked 
harbour, the crowd as a sea outside, beating against 
the walls. 

My own procedure was as strange a performance as 
that of the Yakaboo. Among the officials in the patio 
was one who pushed himself forward and gave me 
a package of mail. He was His Majesty's Postmaster, 
Mr. Monplais'ir. 

no 



CLIMBING SOUFRIERE OF ST. VINCENT 111 

"Is there anything I can do for you?" asked H. M. 
P. M., addressing me by my first name. 

"Yes, Monty," — he was pleased at this — "you can 
lead me to a fresh-water shower." 

"Come along, then," and the sergeant opened the 
gate for us. As we walked through the streets, the 
crowd streaked out behind us like the tail of a comet. 
We soon gained the house of one Mr. Crichton, where 
a number of government clerks lived as in a boarding 
house and where a transient guest might also find 
lodging. There happened that time to be such a guest, 
by name, Dr. Theodorini — optometrist. His mission 
in life, it seemed, was to relieve the eye strain of suffer- 
ing natives throughout the West Indies. His most 
popular prescriptions called for gold-rimmed glasses — 
not always a necessity, but undeniably a distinct social 
asset. We became good friends. 

My comet's tail, like any well behaved appendage, 
tried to follow me into Mr. Crichton's house but the 
landlord was too quick for it and, as I stepped over the 
threshold, he bounded against the flimsy door, thus 
performing a very adroit piece of astronomic surgery. 
Divested of my tail, I was led to the bath, which 
proved to be a small separate building erected over 
a spacious tank with sides waist high. Over the center 
of the tank drooped a nozzle with a cord hanging 
down beside it. What an excellent chance to wash the 
sea water out of my clothes! I pulled the cord and 
stood under the shower. Monty handed me a cigar- 
ette which I puffed under my hat brim. 

In the meantime, Dr. Theodorini, whom I had not 
yet met, began throwing pennies to the baffled crowd 



112 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

from the second story window. It must have been a 
queer sight could one have viewed it in section. The 
swearing of the landlord, accompanied by the orches- 
tration of the voices outside and the staccato "Hur- 
rah's" of Theodorini reminded me in a silly way of 
Tschaikowsky's 1812 overture. 

Having washed my clothes, I bathed au naturel and 
then found to my chagrin that I had brought nothing 
with me from the canoe. Through the partly opened 
door I ordered one of the servants to go to my canoe 
and bring the little yellow bag which contained my 
spare wardrobe. Dried and unsalted, I emerged from 
the bath to sit down to a West Indian breakfast at 
the table of mine host. 

My days in Kingstown were mainly occupied in 
developing the more recent exposures I had made in 
the Grenadines and in rewashing the films I had de- 
veloped en route. In the tropics I found that as soon 
as I had opened a tin of films, it was imperative to 
expose and develop them as quickly as possible in order 
to avoid fogging in the excessive heat. Whenever I 
came to a place like Kingstown where ice was ob- 
tainable this was a simple matter, for by the use of 
the film tank and the changing bag I was independent 
of a dark room. 

On the beaches, however, my chief difficulty was 
in lowering the temperature of the water, which usu- 
ally stood at 8o° F. — the "frilling" point for films. 
Having mixed the developing solution in the tank, I 
would close it and wrap it carefully in a wet flannel 
shirt. Then with a line tied to it — my mizzen hal- 
yard served admirably with its three-inch mast ring 



CLIMBING SOUFRIERE OF ST. VINCENT 113 

to hold in my hand — I would step clear of my tent and 
whirl the tank around my head at the end of the line. 
In this way I could bring down the temperature of 
the liquid to about 75 ° — a safe temperature for de- 
veloping. Often I did not have enough fresh water 
for washing the developed films and would have to use 
sea water — which meant a thorough rewashing such 
as at Kingstown. Even under these adverse condi- 
tions my failures were only ten per cent of the total. 

Ice, in these parts, is used mainly in the making of 
swizzles, as the West Indian cocktails are called, and 
when, as at Crichton's, I would send for enough ice 
to chill gallons of swizzles and withdraw silently to 
my room after dinner, another topic would be added 
in the speculation which summed me up as "queer 
chap that." 

On the 22nd of March, I sailed out of the road- 
stead of Kingstown before a stiff breeze which the 
trade sent around the southern hills like a helping 
hand. It was only natural that the wind should be- 
come contrary off Old Woman Point where it hauled 
around to the North. Then it changed its mind, 
crawled up and down the mast a couple of times, and 
died out in a hot gasp. 

The shift from sails to oars in the Yakaboo was 
quickly made. With a tug and a turn the mizzen was 
hauled taut and made fast. I worked my lines on 
"Butler" cleats, a combination of hook and jam cleat 
that was quick and effective. 

A semicircular motion of the hand cleared the line, 
the same motion reversed made the line fast again. 
My mizzen boom amidships, I then let go the main 



114 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

halyard and the sail dropped into its lazy jacks like 
a loose-jointed fan. With three turns of the hal- 
yard the furled sail was secured and by making the 
line fast to its cleat on the port coaming the sail was 
kept to one side, clear of the cockpit. The lazy 
jacks held the sail up so that the oar could pass under 
it without interference. By letting go the mizzen 
halyard, it likewise fell into its lazy jacks. To furl 
the mizzen, I pulled taut on a down-haul, the standing 
parts of which passed around each side of the sail and 
over the gaff. Thus the gaff was drawn down close to 
the boom, the line snugly holding the intermediate 
sail and battens. 

These five operations were done in the time it takes 
a man to remove a case from his pocket and light a 
cigarette. Then I loosed the light seven-foot oars 
tied in the cockpit with their blades under the forward 
decking. With a shove my blanket bag was in the 
forward end of the cockpit, where it served as my 
seat when rowing. The rowlock chocks with their 
sockets and rowlocks were quickly secured in their 
places on deck, by means of winged nuts that screwed 
into flush sockets. By the time the man with the cig- 
arette has taken three puffs the Yakaboo is off at a 
three and a half knot gait. 

So far, I had done but little rowing in smooth waters 
and the sense of stealing quietly along the lee coast 
to enjoy its intimacy was a new pleasure. All these 
islands, especially the lower ones, have more or less 
the same formation — Grenada, Saint Vincent, Saint 
Lucia, and Dominica. This formation consists of a 
backbone which rises to a height of from two to three 




AS I NEARED THE SHORE I SAW THAT THE JETTY WAS BLACK 
WITH BLACK PEOPLE." 




THE USUAL APPEARANCE OF THE JETTY. BOAT UNLOADING 
FOR THE MARKET. 



CLIMBING SOUFRIERE OF ST. VINCENT 115 

thousand feet and is the main axis of the island with 
spurs which run down to the Atlantic and the Carib- 
bean, east and west, like the veins of a leaf. The 
coast is a fascinating succession of points, bays, cliffs, 
and coves. One may range along shore and find a 
spot to suit any whim one's fancy may dictate. 

I chanced to look around — to locate my position 
on the chart — when I found that I was rowing into 
a fleet of canoes calmly resting on the heave of the 
sea like a flock of ducks. They were apparently wait- 
ing for me. There was not the usual babble of the 
native and if I had not turned just then another stroke 
or two would have shot the Yakaboo into their friendly 
ambuscade. The canoes were filled with "Black Ca- 
ribs" — hence the absence of the babble — that sub-race 
which sprang from Bequia nearly two and a half cen- 
turies ago. 

In 1675, a slave ship from the West Coast of 
Africa foundered in a gale on the shores of Bequia 
which at that time was a Carib stronghold. The 
negroes were good water people and as the ship went 
down they swam ashore, men, women, and children, 
where they were well received by the Caribs. What 
became of the white skipper and his crew one does 
not hear — they were presumably murdered. 

The Caribs were quick to realise that fortune had 
sent them a new ally in these negroes whose love for 
the white man was at a low ebb. The blacks were 
adopted by the Caribs and a new sub-race was formed. 
The result was a tribe in which the fighting qualities 
of both races were distilled to a double strength (an 
expression which comes naturally enough when one 



116 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

is writing in a rum country). These Black Caribs 
successfully held the English at bay for a number of 
years. Nearly a quarter of a century before, the 
Caribs in Grenada had been completely exterminated 
by the French and they were now being rapidly driven 
out of Saint Vincent by the English. 

The negro blood very quickly gained ascendency, 
as it invariably does, and as far as I could ascertain 
the traces of the Carib were almost completely oblit- 
erated among the Black Caribs whom I saw. The 
hair is one of the most obvious indices of admixture, 
varying from the close curly wool of the pure African 
through diverse shades of dark tow to the straight 
black of the Indian. Where racial colour is well mixed, 
the hair is often like the frayed end of a hemp rope. 

I stopped to talk with them and they begged me to 
come ashore to see their village of which they were 
evidently proud. It is called Layou and lies in the 
bight of a bay by the same name. We landed on a 
beach furnace of hot black sand. The sand reminded 
me of iron, and iron reminded me of tetanus. This 
reminded me that the lockjaw germ is not a rare 
animal on these inhabited beaches so I put on my 
moccasins. 

As I have implied there was heat. Not alone the 
stifling heat of a beach where the still air, like a spongy 
mass, seems to accumulate caloric units but also the 
heat of a vertical tropic sun, pouring down like rain. 
My felt hat, stuffed with a red handkerchief, made a 
small circle of shade which protected my neck when 
I held my head up but left the tips of my shoul- 
ders scorching. My forearms hung gorilla-like from 



CLIMBING SOUFRIERE OF ST. VINCENT 117 

my rolled up sleeves, not bare but covered by a deep 
tan from which sprang a forest of bleached hairs — 
the result of weather. Heaven preserve me from a 
nooning on a beach like that! 

The village consisted of a single row of one-room 
huts, thatch-roo;fed and wattle-sided, each standing 
on four posts as if to hold its body off the blistering 
sands. The people conducted me along this row of 
huts on stilts in exactly the way a provincial will take 
you for a walk down the main street of his town. In- 
stead of turning into the drug store, we fetched up by 
a large dugout where a quantity of water-nuts (jelly 
coconuts) were opened. It was the nectar of the Gods. 

I felt like* an explorer on the coast of Africa being 
entertained by the people of a friendly tribe. I was 
touched by their kindly hospitality and shall tell you 
later of other friendly acts by these coast natives. I 
do not believe it was curiosity alone that tempted them 
to beg me to visit their village. True, they crowded 
around the Yakaboo, but they had the delicacy not to 
touch it, a trait which usually obtains among rural 
or coastal natives whether in these islands or civilisa- 
tion. They seemed deeply interested in me and I felt 
that they were constantly devouring me with their eyes. 
When I left them, they filled the cockpit of the Yaka- 
boo with bananas and water-nuts trimmed ready to 
open at a slice from my knife. 

As I rowed out into the bay, I nearly ran down a 
diminutive craft sailing across my bows. There was 
something about that double rig — the Yakaboo turned 
around to look at it as we slid by — and sure enough 
it was Yakaboo' s miniature ! Not far off a small grin- 



118 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

ning boy sat on a small bobbing catamaran. He had 
seen the Yakaboo in Kingstown and had made a small 
model of her — and so she was known to a place before 
she herself got there. I left a shilling on the deck of 
the Little Yakaboo, but she was not long burdened 
with her precious cargo. 

I was again dreaming along shore. Instead of fac- 
ing the north, as I had while sailing, and looking at 
new country, I was now looking toward the south and 
could still see the outlines of the Grenadines and even 
distant Grenada, a haunting tongue of misty blue that 
faded into the uncertain southern horizon. The idea 
seemed to possess me that I should never get out of 
sight of that outline. Now I saw it with my own 
eyes, eaten up by the last point astern that had de- 
voured the Grenadines one by one. I looked around 
me and could see only shores that were new to me 
within the hour. There was a strange joy in it. I 
had made a tangible step northward. 

The sun was getting low, and as the reflection came 
from the broken water, miles to leeward, I felt that 
I was travelling along the edge of the world. No 
horizon line to denote finality, the sense was of in- 
finity and I fancied the trade wind, which blew high 
overhead and met the sea offshore, a siren trying to 
draw me away from land to the unknown of ragged 
clouds. It was the effect upon my mind of the cease- 
less trade and the westerly current. 

With the setting of the sun my row came to an 
end. I was in the little bay of Chateau Belaire, at the 
foot of the Soufriere volcano. 

There was a fierce joy of deception in my heart as 



CLIMBING SOUFRIERE OF ST. VINCENT 119 

I sneaked up to the jetty in the dusk and quietly tied 
my painter to the landing stage. For once I had 
cheated the native of the small spectacular scene of 
which he is so fond. As I stepped ashore, dusk gave 
way to a darkness relieved only by the glow of coal- 
pots through open doors and the smell of frying fish. 
The stars were not yet in their full glow. I could 
move about in the murk observing but not observed. 
I could walk among the fishermen and their garboarded 
dugouts without the ever-recurrent "Look! de mon!" 
But I did not walk about for long and for two very 
good reasons. A lynx-eyed policeman who had dis- 
covered the Yakaboo was one, a foot full of sea eggs 
was the other. 

One morning in Kingstown, I went for a sea bath 
with Monty. It was then I learned that sharks are 
not the greatest pest of the sea for while incautiously 
poking among the rocks I managed to fill my foot 
full of the sharp spines of a sea egg, spines as brittle 
as glass that break off in the flesh. I had tried to 
cut them out with my scalpel, but that only tended to 
increase the damage. Monty had told me the only 
thing for me to do was to wait till the points worked 
out of their own accord. 

So I hobbled back to the jetty to take possession 
of my canoe. My plan was to leave the Yakaboo at 
Chateau Belaire while I made the ascent of the Sou- 
friere and while I visited the Caribs on the windward 
side where the surf was high and the rocky beaches 
more friendly to the thick bottom of a log dugout than 
a quarter inch skin. So the Yakaboo — she was becom- 
ing an habitue of the police courts — was unloaded and 



120 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

carried to the station. While I was in the Carib 
country, the local court was in session and she served 
as a bench for the witnesses. I hope that her honest 
spirit permeated upwards through those witnesses so 
that in the day of judgment they may say, "Once, 
O Peter, did I speak the truth." 

Information regarding the approach and the ascent 
of the Soufriere was untrustworthy and difficult to 
obtain. Any number of the natives seemed to have 
climbed the volcano, but none of them could tell me 
how to do it — a little subtlety on their part to force 
me to hire guides. I engaged my men, brewed a cup 
of tea, chatted with the police sergeant, and turned 
in, on the stiff canvas cot in the rest-room, with ? sheet 
over me. I now know how a corpse feels when it is 
laid out. 

My guides awoke me at five in the morning, I cooked 
a hasty breakfast and was with them in their boat 
half an hour later. There were two of them and as 
surly as any raw Swede deck hands I have ever had 
to do with. For an hour we rowed in silence and then 
we landed at the mouth of the Wallibu Dry River. 
With some of these natives, although you may have 
hired them at their own price to serve you, the feeling 
seems to be not to serve you and do what you wish 
them to do but to grudge their effort on your behalf 
and to make you do what they want you to do. It 
requires continual insistence on the part of the white 
man to have, at times, the simplest services performed 
— an insistence that makes one nerve-weary and ir- 
ritable. 

As soon as we stepped ashore, I sat down on a con- 



CLIMBING SOUFRIERE OF ST. VINCENT 121 

venient rock to grease and bandage my sore foot. 
They seemed to have forgotten my presence entirely 
and started up the bed of the river without even look- 
ing around to see whether I was coming or not. I let 
them walk till they were almost out of hearing and 
then I called them back. When they came to me, not 
without some little show of temper, I told them in 
unmistakable words of one syllable and most of them 
connected by hyphens — that we had as yet not started 
to climb the mountain and that at the end of the day's 
work I should pay them for being guides and not re- 
trievers to nose out the bush ahead of me. 

We proceeded up the bed of the Wallibu River 
which had been made dry in the last eruption (1902) 
by a deep deposit of volcanic rocks and dust which 
had forced the water to seek another channel. As we 
walked between the canon-like sides, I was reminded 
of our own Bad Lands and for the first time I felt a 
bit homesick. These islands have very little in com- 
mon with our northern country; even the nature of 
the people is different. It seemed queer to me to be 
walking in this miniature canon with a couple of West 
Indian natives instead of riding a patient pony and 
exchanging a monosyllable or two with a Westerner. 
I longed for the sight of a few bleached cattle bones 
and perhaps a gopher hole or a friendly rattlesnake. 

A small spur broke the perpendicular face of the 
northern wall and here we climbed to the upper sur- 
face. We were now in bush, most of which was a 
sort of cane grass, over our heads in height, through 
which we followed a narrow trail. This upper sur- 
face on which we now travelled was in reality the 



122 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

lowest slope of the volcano, a gentle incline where 
the catenary curve from the crater melts into the 
horizontal line of the earth's surface. Soon I could 
see over the top of the grass and found that we were 
following the ridge of a spur which radiated in a south- 
westerly direction from the volcano. The ridge itself 
was not one continuous curve upward but festooned 
along a series of small peaks between which we dropped 
down into the bush from time to time. The vegeta- 
tion between these peaks consisted of the same heavy 
cane grass we had passed through on the lower slope. 

To offset the lack of wind in these valley-like de- 
pressions the grass again rose above our heads, keep- 
ing the trail well shaded. Thank fortune, the dreaded 
fer-de-lance does not exist on this island. At about 
1,500 feet the vegetation ceased altogether except for 
a few stray clumps of grass and the greenish fungus 
that gave the ground a mouldy, coppery appearance. 
There was no sign of the flow of lava on this side 
of the volcano, merely the rocks and dust which had 
been thrown up in immense quantities. As we neared 
the top the wind blew strongly and was cold with 
the mist torn from the bellies of low-hanging trade 
clouds. I was fortunate in choosing a day when the 
crater was at times entirely free of clouds, for only 
once during the next ten days did I see the top again 
uncovered, and then for only a few minutes. 

Contrary to my wishes, my sullen guides had again 
taken the bit in their teeth and they started the ascent 
at a brisk pace which killed them before we were half 
way up the mountain. My sore foot demanded a steady 
ground eating pace with no rests. Up till this time they 



CLIMBING SOUFRIERE OF ST. VINCENT 123 

had walked a considerable space ahead of me, this lead 
gradually decreasing as they tired. I could lose no 
time and dared not rest, and since I could now find my 
way perfectly well alone, I went on ahead of them. As 
I neared the top, the force of the wind became more 
and more violent till I found it impossible to stand 
up and I finished the last hundred yards on my hands 
and knees. 

The sight that greeted my eyes as I peered over 
the rim of the crater literally took my breath away — 
that is, what breath the wind had not shoved down to 
my stomach, for it was blowing a hurricane. I could 
not at once quite grasp the immensity of the crater — 
for its proportions are so perfect that I would not 
have believed the distance across to the opposite rim 
to be more than a few hundred yards, — it is nearly 
a mile. A thousand feet below me — held in the bowl 
of the crater — was a lake almost half a mile in diame- 
ter. During the last splutters of the eruption of 1902 
the ejecta had fallen back and this together with the 
subsiding of the inner slopes of the crater had effectu- 
ally sealed up the chimney of the volcano. 

The enormous precipitation which is nearly always 
going on, due to the striking of the clouds against the 
crater, has collected in the bottom to form this lake. 
I hardly knew my old friend the trade wind. He 
rushed up the windward side of the mountain, boarded 
the crater, and pounced upon the lake like a demon, 
spreading squalls in all directions. The surface of the 
water looked like the blushing surface of a yellow 
molten metal. Then up the leeward side and over the 
rim where I hung, he came with the scream of a thou- 



124 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

sand furies. It was as though the spirits of the un- 
funeraled dead had come back to haunt the place, 
day and night. As I pulled the slide out of my 
camera, to make an exposure, the wind bent it nearly 
to the breaking point. My hat had long since been a 
tight roll in my pocket and I lay, head on, my toes 
dug into the slimy surface of the slope, with my face 
buried in the hood of my camera and the empty case 
streaming out behind me. 

I spent an hour in scrambling along the rim and 
then returned to the guides who were resting some 
distance below. It was still early for I had reached 
the rim at 8 130 after a climb of an hour and thirty-two 
minutes. My barometer registered a height of three 
thousand and twenty feet and while the climb had been 
an easy one, the time was not bad for a foot full of sea 
eggs. 

Higher mountains to the north cut off all possibility 
of seeing Saint Lucia or Martinique, but as I looked to 
the south, Grenada showed herself and the Grenadines 
stretched out like stepping stones. Below lay all the 
vast area that had been laid waste by the eruption. 
In place of the forests, now buried deep in the volcanic 
dust and scoria, was a green blanket of grass, bush 
and small trees that would belie an eruption that had 
obliterated every sign of green nine years ago. Scru- 
tiny with the field glasses, however, showed innumer- 
able canons cut through laminae of volcanic deposit 
with thin layers of soil between. I could almost throw 
a stone, I thought, into the little village of Chateau 
Belaire four miles away, that by some miracle had es- 
caped destruction by a few hundred yards. But my 



CLIMBING SOUFRIERE OF ST. VINCENT 125 

eyes always came to rest on the Caribbean. The rays 
of the sun, reflected back from myriad waves, too 
distant to be seen, gave the sea the appearance of a 
vast sheet of molten metal with here and there a blush 
where some trade cloud trailed its shadow. The 
clouds dissolved away into the horizon, sustaining the 
feeling that there was nothing beyond but infinity. 

The sea eggs were now giving sharp notice of their 
presence and I decided to rush the descent. I had ex- 
changed but few words with my guides. If there had 
been discontent during the ascent, there was more 
cause for it now. The customary grog had not been 
forthcoming, for I never carry spirits on an expedi- 
tion like this. In case of accident or exposure there 
are better things that give no after effects of let down. 
My guides followed me in my downward rush with 
hardly breath enough for the proper amount of curs- 
ing which the occasion demanded. If they said any- 
thing about "de dyam Yonkee" I heard it not, for the 
trade wind would have carried it high over my head. 
The enjoyment of the chase kept my mind off the pain 
in my foot. I reached the boat in forty minutes. 

When we arrived at Chateau Belaire I found the 
Government doctor on his round of the Leeward coast. 
What a blessed relief it would be to have him inject 
some cocaine into my foot and then cut out the miser- 
able sea egg points. But he was as effective as a Chris- 
tian Scientist — I should have to wait till I reached 
Saint Lucia where there was an excellent hospital in 
Castries and then have the points removed. 

Batiste promised better. He was a Yellow Carib 
whom I had found in Kingstown and whom I had en- 



126 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

gaged to take me into the Carib country the next day. 
One of the first books I read on the West Indies was 
by Frederic Ober and what better boatman could I 
have than the son of his old Batiste with whom he 
spent months on the slopes of the volcano camping and 
hunting the Soufriere bird. "Wen we reach up Carib 
countrie you see de sea egg come out." 

That night I was far away from the Caribbean and 
I dreamed it was Saturday morning in the city. Out- 
side I could hear the familiar sound of the steps being 
scrubbed with rotten stone. I could feel the glare of 
the morning sun that had just risen over the roofs of 
the houses and was shining on the asphalted street — 
"avenue" it was called. Then came the toot-toot of 
the toy-balloon man, a persistent sound — too persis- 
tent — and I finally awoke with the sun in my eyes and 
the noise of Batiste's conch in my ears. With a feeling 
that my youth was forever a thing of the past and that 
I had assumed some overwhelming burden, I bounded 
off the high cot and landed on the sea egg foot. There 
had been no sea eggs and no overwhelming burden in 
my young life on that city street. For the sake of com- 
pany I yelled to Batiste to come and have some tea 
with me. 

At last we were off, I comfortably seated in the after 
end of the canoe with my family of yellow bags around 
and under me; Batiste behind me, steering while we 
were rowed by two Caribs with Christian names. The 
canoe was as all canoes of the Lesser Antilles — in real- 
ity a row-boat. The hull proper is a dug-out made of 
the log of the gommier tree. To this has been added 
a sheer streak to give the craft more freeboard. In 




MY SURLY GUIDES. TAKEN ABOVE THE LINE OF VEGETATION. 





THE WALLIBU DRY RIVER WHERE WE BEGAN THE ASCENT. THE 
SOUFRIERE IN THE DISTANCE, ITS CONE HIDDEN IN THE MIST. 



CLIMBING SOUFRIERE OF ST. VINCENT 127 

adding the sheer streak a wedge is put into the after 
end so that above water the boat has the appearance of 
having a dory stern. Oars have long since taken the 
place of the primitive paddle and because the boat is 
deep and narrow, having no real bilge at all, she is 
ballasted with stones. They are ticklish craft, slow- 
moving and not particularly seaworthy. 

We were passing the point between Richmond River 
and the Wallibu Dry River where I had begun the as- 
cent of the mountain the day before when Batiste said, 
"You see w'ere de railin' is?" He pointed to a broad 
tongue of land about two or three acres in extent which 
for some reason was fenced in. "De boat walk dere 
before de erupshun." 

Not far from this place we came upon a curious phe- 
nomenon which Batiste called "de spinning tide." In 
the clay-coloured water, that surrounded it, was a cir- 
cular area of blue, sharply defined, about thirty feet in 
diameter, set in rotary motion by the coastwise current. 
The coolness of the water suggested the outflow of 
some submarine spring, probably from under the bed 
of the Dry River. 

One hears but little of the eruption of the Soufriere 
of Saint Vincent. It was only because there was no 
large town near the crater of the Soufriere that only 
sixteen hundred were killed — a mere handful compared 
with the twenty-five thousand in the French island. It 
seems that all these islands, along the arc from Gre- 
nada to Saba, lie along a seam where the earth's outer 
crust is thin. Had the Soufriere of Saint Lucia (which 
lies between Saint Vincent and Martinique) not been in 
a semi-active state there would in all probability have 



128 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

been a triple eruption. I found that Pelee and the 
Soufriere of Saint Vincent have a habit of celebrating 
together at intervals of approximately ninety years — 
1902, 18 12, 171 8, and there is some mention of dis- 
turbances in 1625. 

Our chief interest in the eruption of the Soufriere of 
Saint Vincent is on account of its effect upon the Yellow 
Carib. This island was the last stronghold of the 
Caribs in the West Indies and when they were finally 
subdued and almost exterminated the majority of the 
few remaining ones were transported by the English to 
the island of Ruatan near Honduras. The rest were 
eventually pardoned by the Government and were al- 
lowed to settle in various places in the island. 

There was for a time a considerable admixture of 
negro blood, but little by little this was eliminated as 
the Caribs (Yellow) drew closer and closer together 
among themselves and began to settle on the windward 
side of the island at Sandy Bay. Here the Government 
gave them a considerable grant of land which became 
known as the "Carib Country." The spread of the 
Black Carib seems to have stopped shortly after their 
first union at Bequia. But the Black Carib, more or 
less a race apart, was more agriculturally inclined than 
the Yellow Carib, yet possessed the Indian's fondness 
for the sea. 

We find then, before the eruption of 1902, the Yel- 
low Carib to the northeast of the volcano, living more 
or less in his former state on the windward side of 
the island; the Black Carib to the southwest, along the 
leeward coast, while the negro was more or less evenly 
distributed throughout the rest of the island. The 



CLIMBING SOUFRIERE OF ST. VINCENT 129 

eruption of the Soufriere differed from that of Pelee in 
that the volcano of Saint Vincent laid waste a consid- 
erable area to windward, devastating most of the Carib 
Country and killing a goodly number of the Indians. 
This seems always to have been their favourite spot 
for as early as 1720 Churchill mentions the fact, and 
says, "The other side (windward) is peopled by two 
or three thousand Indians who trade with those about 
the river Oronoque, on the continent. . . ." 

Immediately after the eruption, the Government 
gave the Yellow Caribs land among the Black Caribs 
along the leeward coast and even went so far as to erect 
small houses for them — houses that were far better 
than their former huts. But the Yellow Caribs were 
too much Indian to settle down to the tame life of 
farming among the Black Caribs and little by little 
they left their comfortable English-made homes and 
began to steal back to their former haunts ; one by one 
at first — then in numbers till there was a well-defined 
migration. When I visited them — nine years after the 
eruption — all the Yellow Caribs of Saint Vincent were 
back at Sandy Bay, there being but two individuals out- 
side the island — one in Carriacou and the other in 
Grenada. 

At one place, where the high cliffs drop sheer into 
the sea, grudging even a beach, we came upon some 
Black Caribs fishing from their boats in the deep water. 
Their method is peculiar and is known as "bulling," 
probably a corruption of "balling." A single hook on 
the end of a line is weighted and lowered till it touches 
bottom. Then the line is hauled in a few feet and a 
knot is tied so that when the baited hook is lowered it 



130 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

will hang just above the bottom. The line is taken 
into the boat and the sinker removed from the hook 
which is now baited with a piece of sardine or smelt. 
Around this baited hook a ball is formed of meal made 
of the same small fish. The hook is then gently low- 
ered till the knot indicates that the double bait has 
reached the haunts of the fish which feeds close to the 
bottom. With a quick upward jerk the ball is broken 
away from the hook. The scattered fish-meal draws 
the attention of the fish which investigates the floating 
food and presently goes for the large piece hanging in 
the center. And so like the rest of us who get into 
trouble when we reach out for the big piece the fish 
finds that there is a string tied to this food and that 
the line is too strong for him. The wrist and finger 
that hold the other end of the line are sensitive to the 
slightest nibble. 

We rounded De Volet Point, which corresponds to 
Tangalanga on Grenada, and I once more felt the roll 
of the trades. A sea slopped over the gunwale and 
wet my leg which I drew into the canoe. We were now 
all island savages together holding up our ticklish craft 
by the play of our bodies. I looked across the channel 
to Saint Lucia with her twin Pitons rising distinct, 
thirty miles away. Batiste pulled himself together and 
told me that on very clear days he could see the glint of 
the sun on the cutlasses in the cane fields on the moun- 
tain slopes near Vieux Fort. 

"You like some sweet water?" he asked, and at the 
question my throat went too dry for speech. We 
turned into a little cove — you will find it called "Petit 
Baleine" on the chart, although if a whale swam into it 



CLIMBING SOUFRIERE OF ST. VINCENT 131 

he could never get out unless he could crawl backwards. 
While the men held the boat off the rocks, Batiste and 
I jumped ashore with four empty calabashes. A tiny 
stream which came from high up on the slope of the 
Soufriere Mountains, with the chill of the mists still in 
it, poured out from the dense foliage above us, spread 
itself into a veil of spray, gathered itself together again 
on a rocky face, and fell into a deep shaded basin into 
which we put our faces and drank till our paunches 




How the Caribs Rig a Calabash for Carrying Water 

gurgled. At times it is hard not to be a pig. Then, as 
if not satisfied with what Nature intended us to carry 
away, we filled our calabashes. These were as they 
have always been with the Carib — left whole with 
merely a small hole about an inch and a half in dia- 
meter in the top. They are carried by means of a wisp 
of grass with a loop for the fingers in one end and with 
the other end braided around a small piece of wood 
that is inserted into the hole to act as a toggle. It is 
easy to carry water in this way without spilling it for 
when the calabash is full there is but a small surface 
for the water to vibrate on. Pere Labat mentions a 



132 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

curious use of the calabash in his day. In order to 
make a receptacle in which valuable papers could be 
hidden without fear of destruction by moisture a cala- 
bash was cut across at a point a quarter or a fifth of 
its length from the stem end. To cover the opening, 
another calabash was cut with a mouth somewhat larg- 
er than the first one and they were bound together with 
thongs of the mahaut. This calabash safe was then 
hidden in the branches of trees that had large leaves 
for the sake of obscurity. They were called coyembouc 
by the Caribs who invented them. 

We put off again, passing the ruined estate of 
"Fancy," a mute reminder of that smiling day when 
destruction had come over the top of the mountains to 
the south — one of Nature's back-hand blows. A little 
beyond, our row of twelve miles came to an end and 
we beached through the heavy surf at Owia Bay where 
I found myself in the midst of a group of Yellow 
Caribs and negroes. I was a bit disappointed till Ba- 
tiste told me that this was not Point Espagiiol. We 
should have to go the rest of the way by land for the 
surf at Sandy Bay, he said, was too high to run with 
the loaded canoe. I wondered at this till I actually saw 
the surf two days later. 

Batiste and his crew packed my family of yellow 
bags on their heads and marched off on their way to 
Point Espagiiol while I waited for a pony hospitably 
offered by the manager of an arrowroot estate on the 
slopes above the bay. 

The pony was a heavenly loan but there was a cun- 
ning in his eye that did not belong to the realm above. 
His eye took me in as I mounted him, somewhat stiffly, 




THE RIM OF THE CRATER. 




A THOUSAND FEET BELOW, HELD IN THE BOWL OF THE CRATER 
IS A LAKE NEARLY A HALF MILE IN DIAMETER." 



CLIMBING SOUFRIERE OF ST. VINCENT 133 

for the pain of the sea eggs was getting beyond my 
foot. That eye made careful note that I wore no 
spurs, neither did I carry a whip nor even a switch. 
He started off at a brisk pace which he kept up till we 
were well along the main road. Then he stopped. I 
clucked and chirruped and whistled and swore. I also 
beat his leathery sides with my heels. No perceptible 
inclination to go forward. I talked to him but he did 
not understand my language. There was something, 
however, that I knew he would understand and I pulled 
off my belt. If you must subject by force or punish- 
ment, let it be swift, sure and effective. The brute had 
carelessly neglected to take note of a suspicious lump 
under my coat which hid a 38-40 Colt. First I circled 
my legs around his barrel body after the manner of a 
lead cavalry soldier "Made in Germany." Then with 
my gun in my left hand and my belt in my right, buckle- 
end being synoymous with business-end, I gave a warn- 
ing yell and let him have the buckle in his ribs while 
the revolver went off close to his left ear. We rapidly 
caught up with Batiste — in fact, my steed was even re- 
luctant in slowing down when I pulled him up behind 
the last Indian. 

While my little caravan shuffled along ahead of me, 
I leisurely enjoyed the scenery of this level bit of road 
which skirts the slope of the Soufriere Mountains at 
the very edge where it breaks down to the sea. Some 
two hundred feet below me an intensely blue sea broke 
against the rocks into a white foam that washed out 
into a tracery of fine lace at every lull; the rocks, the 
blue, and the foam like that of the Mediterranean 
along a bit of Italian coast. Landwards the slope rose 



134 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

in a powerful curve, heavily wooded, bearing numer- 
ous small peaks, to the Soufriere range which hides 
the volcano from view till one has reached the ex- 
tremity of Point Espagfiol. 

The point is a peninsular-like promontory, the top of 
which rises into two hills. Each of these hills is the 
site of a small Carib village of about forty-five inhabi- 
tants, the last of the Yellow Caribs of the Antilles. 
After a quick survey I decided upon the farther vil- 
lage which is a bit more to seaward and here I dis- 
mounted in the cool shade of the grove which gives the 
huts a pleasant sense of seclusion. After circling 
around, much as a dog that is preparing to lie down 
in the tall grass, I selected a spot on the edge of the 
little group of huts and set up my tent looking out over 
the Atlantic which lay some three hundred feet below. 
Since I could not see the setting of the sun, I faced the 
tent toward his rising. Here the cool trade wind be- 
lied the terrific heat of Sandy Bay below with its in- 
cessant roar of surf. 



CHAPTER VI 

DAYS WITH A VANISHING RACE 

I NEEDED no introduction to the Caribs, for they 
had known that I would come since my first meet- 
ing with the men in Bequia. They had also learned of 
my arrival at Chateau Belaire and that in another day 
I should be with them. One poor old woman had been 
watching all day to see me come flying over the Sou- 
friere Mountains Batiste told her of the Yakaboo 
and that if it did not fly it was at least rudderless. She 
consoled herself with, "He sail widout rudder 1" 

There was some satisfaction in watching me and as 
I pitched my tent and put my house in order, I had an 
interested crowd about me that did not use their fin- 
gers as well as their eyes with which to see. About a 
third of the village was there when I arrived. Besides 
Batiste and his men, those who gathered around my 
tent were the younger women who were spending the 
day in baking cassava cakes for the market, the chil- 
dren, and the old women who could do no other work 
than tend a coal-pot or sweep out the huts. The men 
were either fishing or were down the coast at George- 
town to sell fish and the produce which the women had 
raised. The women are the farmers and we could see 
their patient forms moving goat-like along the furrows 
high up on the mountain slopes where they cultivate 
cassava, tanniers, and arrowroot. 

135 



136 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

One of the old women noticed that I was limping 
and as soon as I had everything ship-shape in my house, 
she went to her hut and returned with some soft tallow 
and a coal-pot. Batiste said, "You goin' lose sea egg 
dis night." First she smeared the sole of my foot with 
the tallow and then lighting a splinter of dry wood 
from her coal-pot she passed the blaze close to the skin, 
almost blistering the sole of my foot. Then she told 
me to bandage the foot and not to walk on it — an 
unnecessary caution. 

With Indian tact, they left me to loaf away the 
waning afternoon on my old companion, the blanket 
bag. I had begun the day in an idle way — let it end 
that way. There had been many places where I had 
loafed away the end of an afternoon on my blanket in 
just this way, but none of them will hold its place in 
my memory with this camp of mine on the edge of 
the Carib village. The huts were behind me and in the 
vista of my tent door there was no form of the ubi- 
quitous native to distract, for there is no depth of 
character to romance upon when one sees a silent form 
shuffle along some bush path. Behind me the Caribs 
were quiet — I would not have known there were chil- 
dren or dogs in the village. Peace was there with just 
the rustle of the leaves above me as an accompani- 
ment; the song of a bird would have been thrilling. 
Below me the Atlantic rolled under the trade wind 
through the channel and became the Caribbean. A 
school of porpoise rounded the point and headed for 
the Spanish Main, mischief-bent like a fleet of corsairs. 
Well out in the channel my eye caught a little puff of 
steam and I knew that it came from a "humpback." 



DAYS WITH A VANISHING RACE 137 

Finally as the sun sent his last long slant across the 
water whence we had come in the morning, it caught 
the smoke of the coasting steamer entering the bay of 
Vieux Fort in Saint Lucia — a hint of industry to specu- 
late upon. With the shutting down of darkness one of 
the old women brought me a coal-pot and I cooked my 
supper while the stars came out in an inquisitive way 
to see what I was doing. 

By this time the village had assembled and fed it- 
self. When the people found that I was not unwilling, 
they flocked around the door of my tent and I chatted 
with those who could talk English, these in turn inter- 
preted our conversation to the others. After a while, 
my old sea egg woman of the afternoon— I could hard- 
ly tell one old woman from another, they were like old 
hickory nuts with the bark on — said, "Now de sea egg 
come out." I took off the bandage and she put my 
foot in her lap. Some one brought a gommier flam- 
beau with its pungent odour that somehow reminded 
me of a vacant-lot bonfire into which a rubber shoe had 
found its way. 

It would have been one of the best photographs of 
my whole cruise could I have caught those faces around 
that burning flambeau. Now for the first time I could 
really observe them in unconscious pose. Notwith- 
standing a considerable amount of admixture that must 
have undergone with the blacks, there was still a satis- 
fying amount of Indian blood left in these people. I 
said Indian purposely for I do not care to use the ex- 
pression Carib in this sentence. I believe these people 
to be more of the peaceful Arawauk than the fierce 
Carib, although time and environment and subjuga- 



138 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

tion may have had this softening effect upon them. 
How much truth there may be in it I do not know, 
but the impression seems to be that in these islands the 
Caribs originally came from the north, advancing from 
island to island and conquering as they went the peace- 
ful islander, the Arawauk, who was the real native of 
the Lesser Antilles. Upon raiding an Arawauk settle- 
ment the Caribs would kill most of the men and what 
women and children they did not eat they took to them- 
selves as wives and slaves. Through their offspring 
by their Carib masters the Arawauk women introduced 
their language and their softening influence into the 
tribes so that little by little the nature of the Carib 
was perceptibly changed. Thus the Arawauks became 
ultimately the race conquerors. In 1600 Herrera says, 
"It has been observed that the Caribbees in Dominica 
and those of Saint Lucia and Saint Vincent scarce un- 
derstand one another's language," which tends to show 
that the lingual change was then going on throughout 
the islands. When I questioned the Caribs of Point 
Espagfiol in regard to the Indians of Dominica they 
expressed entire ignorance of their fellow savages. 
These people whom I saw in the light of the flambeau 
had the softened features of a race dying for the same 
reason that our pure American is dying — his country 
is changing and he cannot change with it. I thought 
of what Pere Labat said of them three hundred years 
ago — 1 "Their faces seemed melancholie, they are said 
to be good people." 

Holding my foot close to the light, the old woman 
pinched the sole on either side of one of the purple 
marks which indicated the lair of a sea egg point. At 



DAYS WITH A VANISHING RACE 139 

the pressure the point launched forth, with scarcely any 
pain, eased on its way by a small drop of matter. The 
blistering with the hot grease had caused each minute 
wound to fester. In the next minute or two the largest 
of the points, about fourteen in number, were squeezed 
out. Some of the smaller points along the edge of the 
sole had not yet festered, but they came out the next 
morning. 

The fun was over, we had had our preliminary chat, 
the flambeau had burned down, and the village turned 
in. So did I. 

On "calm" mornings, that is, when the wind is not 
blowing more than ten or twelve miles an hour, a stiff 
squall bustles ahead of the sun as if to say, "Get up ! 
By the time you have cooked breakfast the sun will be 
having a peep to see how you have begun the day. You 
must take advantage of the cool morning hours, you 
know," and in a moment is rushing away toward 
Honduras. And so it was this morning. Confound 
Nature and her alarm clock that sprinkled in through 
my open door ! — but after all she was right. 

Fishing was the order of the day and after the sun 
is up it takes but a short time to warm the black sands 
of the bay below to a hellish heat. My old woman 
produced her coal-pot — it seemed to be kindled with 
the everlasting flame of the Roman Vestals — and I 
soon had my chocolate cooking and my bacon frying 
while I bade a not reluctant adieu to the last few sea 
egg points. My foot was free of pain and when I 
walked I could have sworn that there had been noth- 
ing like sea egg points in it the day or even the week 
before. I stuffed a few biscuits in a clothes bag, dressed 



140 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

my camera in its sea togs, and was off with the fish- 
ermen to the beach. There were twelve besides my- 
self, four to a boat, two to row and two to fish — I 
should be the fifth in Batiste's boat. 

The morning was still fresh from the cool night air 
as we filed down the cliff road to the beach. The sur- 
face of the sand was still dew damp. There were three 
dug-outs waiting for us under the protection of a 
thatched roof supported by poles, as if some queer 
four-legged shore bird had just laid them. There was 
no end of puttering before we could start, a bit of gear 
to be overhauled, a stitch or two to be taken in a sail so 
patched that I doubt whether there was a thread of 
the original cloth in it, and a rudder pintle to be tink- 
ered with. I counted fifty-six patches in our mainsail, 
although its area was not more than six square yards. 

When we dragged the three boats down to the edge 
of the water the sun was just crawling up through the 
fringe of horizon clouds. The surf was not running 
so high as on the day before, and yet I could see that 
we should have to use care in launching the canoes. 
We dragged the first boat down till its bow was in the 
foam and with the crew seated at their oars we waited. 
There was a lull and as a wave broke smaller than the 
rest we launched the boat on its outgoing tide. The 
men caught the water and lifted their boat clear of the 
surf line as a sea curled and broke under their stern. 
We got off the beach with equal success. Contrary to 
the lucky rule of three the last boat was swamped and 
had to try over again. 

Once off shore, we stopped rowing and stepped our 
rig, which consisted of two masts with sprit sails, one 




BLACK CARIB BOY AT OWIA BAY. 
AT THREE PENCE PER FOOT. 



HIS CATAMARAN IS TAXED 




THERE IS STILL A SATISFYING AMOUNT OF INDIAN BLOOD LEFT 
IN THESE PEOPLE/' 



DAYS WITH A VANISHING RACE 141 

smaller than the other, the smaller sail being stepped 
forward so that we looked like a Mackinaw rig re- 
versed. While these boats have no keel or center- 
board, they somehow manage to hang onto the wind 
fairly well due to their depth of hold. They cannot, 
of course, beat to any purpose, still they can manage 
to sail about seven points off the wind which is good 




Rig of the Carib Canoe 

enough in the Carib waters where there is always a 
shore to leeward. With free sheets we ran for a bank 
to the southeastward where the "black fin" abounds 
and here we took down our sails and proceeded to 
fish. The other boats ran to similar banks to the south 
of us. 

The black fin is a small fish, about the size of a large 
perch, its scales etched in a delicate red against a 
white skin. The name comes from a black spot at the 



142 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

hinge of the pectoral fin. Instead of anchoring, the 
two bow men rowed slowly while the rest of us fished. 
In this way we could skirt the edge of the reef till we 
found good fishing and then follow the school as it 
drifted with the tide while feeding. 

We used the ordinary hand line, weighted with a 
stone about the size of one's fist. Above the stone, a 
gang of from four to six small hooks is baited with 
pieces of this same black fin. Like bulling this too is 
deep-water fishing for we lowered fully two hundred 
feet of line before the stone reached bottom. The 
line is then pulled up a few feet and held there to await 
the nibble of the fish. As soon as a bite is felt (one 
must develop a delicate touch to feel the nibble of a 
one pound fish at the end of a weighted line two hun- 
dred feet long) , the line is given a lightning yank and 
pulled in as fast as possible. Hand over hand, as 
quickly as one forearm can pass the other, the line 
is hauled in over the gunwale while it saws its way into 
the wood. 

Sometimes there are two or even three fish on the 
end of the line when it is hauled into the canoe. I man- 
aged, however, to reduce the average considerably at 
first for I usually found that I had lost both fish and 
bait. Finally to the joy of Batiste, who considered me 
his protege, I began to bring in my share. In the mid- 
dle of the day we ate our scanty luncheon and then took 
to hauling in black fins again. 

Early in the afternoon a fierce squall came down, 
dragging half a square mile of breaking seas with it. 
The Indians began to undress and I did the same, fold- 
ing my shirt and trousers and stowing them in one of 



DAYS WITH A VANISHING RACE 143 

my oiled bags, much to the admiration of the others. 
We got overboard just as the squall struck and I 
slipped into the water between Batiste and one Rabat 
— they were used to fighting sharks in the water. With 
three of us on one side and two on the other, we held 
the boat, bow on to the seas, depressing the stern to 
help the bow take the larger combers and then easing 
up as the foam swept over our heads. In a jiffy the 
squall was past, like a small hurricane, and as we 
crawled into the boat again I watched it race up the 
mountain slopes and sweep the mists off the Soufriere. 
In the break that followed, the top of the volcano was 
exposed for a few minutes, my second and last view of 
the crater. 

We again pulled up black fins till the fish covered 
the bottom of the canoe and we ran for home toward 
the end of the afternoon. 

I now found out why the puttering of preparation 
was done in the morning. No sane man would do more 
than the absolutely necessary work of dragging his 
boat under the shade of the thatched roof and seeing 
that his gear was stowed under the roof poles in the 
heat of that beach. We made all haste for the cliff 
road and were soon in the breezy shade of our village 
grove. My share of the black fins went to the old sea 
egg doctor who selected one of the largest and fried it 
for me with all sorts of queer herbs and peppers. This 
with tanniers, tea, and cassava cakes made my supper. 
It was an easy existence, this with the Caribs, for I 
did but little cooking. I merely had to indicate what 
I wanted and some one or other would start a coal- 
pot before my tent and the meal was soon cooking. 



144 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

I have hinted at the flexibility of the Indian's lan- 
guage and that night I found a similar flexibility in 
savage custom. No doubt these Caribs had quickly 
lost most of their ancient rites and customs with the ad- 
vance of civilisation. I found that in like manner they 
easily adopted new customs, one of them being the 
"wake." In the day's fishing I had caught fully thirty 
black fins and had hauled in my line half again as many 
times, say forty-five. Forty-five times two hundred 
means nine thousand feet of line hauled in hand over 
hand as quickly as possible. This kind of fishing was 
exercise and I was tired. I went to bed early, but I 
slept not. It was that truly heathen rite, the "wake," 
which I believe comes from the Emerald Isle. May 
all Hibernian priests in the West Indies take note — it 
is the savage side of their religion that takes its hold 
upon the negro and the Indian. May these same Hi- 
bernians know that it was simply the "wake" that the 
Indians took from their faith for they are in religion 
Anglicans. Adapted would have been a better word 
for the wake of the Caribs is a combination of what we 
know as wake and the similar African custom called 
saracca. A tremendous feast of rice, peas, chickens, 
and any other food that may be at hand is cooked for 
the spirits who come in the night and eat. But the poor 
spirits are not left to enjoy this repast in peace for 
the living sit around the food with lighted candles and 
song. In the morning the food is gone and usually 
there is evidence that spirits have entered into the 
stomachs if not the ceremony of the mourners. 

There is one pleasing feature in this mourning cere- 
mony; while it is usually begun with a truly sorrowful 



DAYS WITH A VANISHING RACE 145 

mien it often ends with all concerned in a happier mood 
to take up their worldly burdens again. The Caribs 
of Point Espagiiol were content merely with singing. 
When one of their number dies they pray on the third 
night after death and on the ninth they sing during 
the entire night. This happened to be the ninth. In 
the evening, then, they all assembled in one of the 
larger huts, not far from my tent. 

At first I thought it was only a sort of prayer meet- 
ing and I managed to doze off with a familiar hymn 
ringing in my ears. They would sing one hymn till 
their interest in the tune began to flag and their voices 
lower. Then they would attack another hymn with 
renewed vigour. At each attack I would awaken and 
could only doze off again when the process of vocal 
mastication was nearly completed. They were still 
singing when the sun rose. 

Sunday came, as it always should, a beautiful day 
and I lay on my blankets till the sun was well above 
the horizon, watching my breakfast cook on the coal- 
pot as a lazy, well-fed dog lies in his kennel meditating 
a bone. There seemed to be more than the usual morn- 
ing bustle in the huts behind me and I found that the 
whole village was preparing to go to church. I must 
go with them, so I took off my shirt, washed it, and 
hung it up to dry. Then I carefully washed my face 
in warm water and proceeded to shave, using the 
scalpel from my instrument case for a razor. The 
polished inside cover of my watch made a very good 
mirror. A varnish brush, if it be carefully washed out 
with soap and hot water immediately after it has been 
used will be just as soft and clean as when new. I had 



146 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

such a brush which I used for painting and varnishing 
the Yakaboo, — it was not a bad distributer of lather. 
It is remarkable how a shave will bolster one's self- 
respect; I actually walked straighter afterwards. I 
donned the trousers that I had washed in the shower 
bath in Kingstown and with my clean shirt, which had 
quickly dried in the sun and wind, I made a fairly 
decent appearance — that is, in comparison with my 
usual dress. A clean bandana handkerchief completed 
the toilet. 

With church-going came the insufferable torture of 
shoes — that is, for the aristocrats who owned them. 
My own I was saving for climbs like the Soufriere and 
I used moccasins. Shoes, however, are the correct 
things to wear in these parts at weddings, funerals, and 
church. Aside from these occasions they are never 
worn. 

The exodus began a little after ten o'clock and in 
five minutes there was not a soul left in the village. 
The goodly piece of road to Owia was, I thought, a 
measure in a certain way of the faith of these people. 
One is apt to be biased in their favour but still I cannot 
think that it was merely a desire for a bit of diversion 
to break the monotony of their lives that they all went 
to church as they did on this Sunday. 

I believed as I walked with them that they were 
obeying a true call to worship. The call to worship 
became a tangible one as soon as we had circumvented 
the ravine and were on the road to Owia. It was the 
clang of a bell, incessant and regular — irritating to 
me — not a call but a command — the Sunday morning 
chore of a negro sexton. The church proper had been 



DAYS WITH A VANISHING RACE 147 

destroyed by the earthquakes attendant upon the erup- 
tion of the Soufriere — the ruins being another mute 
piece of evidence of the former splendour of these is- 
lands, for it had been built of grey stone and granite 
brought from oversea, a small copy of an English 
country church. 

The bell was rescued after the earthquake from 
the pile of debris which had once been its home and 
mounted where it now hangs, on a cross piece between 
two uprights. On Sunday mornings the sexton places 
a ladder against this gallows and climbs up where he 
pounds the bell as if with every stroke he would 
drive some lagging Christian to worship. Sheep-like, 
we obeyed its call till the last of our flock was in the 
schoolhouse, where the service is held — when the 
clanging ceased. 

The congregation was part negro, but we Indians 
sat on our own side of the building, where we could 
look out of the windows, across the little patches of 
cultivation to the blue Atlantic. We were as much out 
of doors as in, where, in truth, we are apt to find the 
greater part of our religion — if we look for it. 

When I said schoolhouse, I meant a frame shed, 
about thirty feet by fifty, with unpainted benches for 
the pupils and a deal table at the far end for the 
schoolmaster. Letters of the alphabet and numerals 
wandered about on the unpainted walls and shutters in 
chalky array like warring tribes on tapestry, doing 
their utmost to make a lasting impression in the little 
brown and ebony heads of the school children. 

The service was Anglican, read by a negro reader, 
for the parson is stationed in Georgetown and makes 



148 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

his visit only once a month. We shall let him pass in 
favour of the woman who led the choir. I knew her as 
she arose ; I had seen that expression from my earliest 
days, the adamant Christian whom one finds the world 
over in any congregation. This woman's voice was 
as metallic as the bell outside and in her whole manner 
and bearing was that zeal which expresses the most 
selfish one of us all, the Christian more by force of 
will than by meekness of heart. She sang. The choir 
and the miserable congregation merely kept up a feeble 
murmur of accompaniment. 

I said miserable, for did we not feel that there was 
no chance for God to hear our weak voices above that 
clarion clang? Between hymns my mind was free 
to wander out through the windows, where it found 
peace and rest. 

The offending shoes had come off after the first 
hymn and now furtive movements here and there pro- 
claimed the resuming of that civilised instrument of 
torture. The last hymn was about to be sung. 

After the heat of the day I wandered back to the 
village alone. My old sea egg woman was sitting on 
the grassy slope just below my tent and I took up my 
note-book and sat down beside her. She was in a 
reminiscent mood and I soon got her to talk about 
her natal language. She and two other old women 
were the only ones who knew the Caribbean tongue 
in this village — there was an equal number in 
the other village. When these old people go, with 
them will go the living tongue of the native of the 
Antilles — the words that Columbus heard when he 
discovered these islands. She was intensely pleased 



DAYS WITH A VANISHING RACE 149 

at the interest I showed in her language and I had 
no trouble in getting her to talk. 

Most of the words were unchanged from the time 
of Bryan Edwards in 1790, when the conquest of the 
Arawauks must have been more or less complete. 
Some words such an Sun — Vehu, now Wey-u; fire — 
what-ho, now wah-tuh — were merely softened. Other 
words showed a slight change such as water — tona, 
now doonab; fish — oto, now oodu. There were some 
words that had been changed completely, such as moon 
— mone, now ha at or hati. 

Most interesting perhaps to the lay mind are the 
onomatopoetic words that seem to take their meaning 
from their sound. A word common to many savage 
languages all over the world was Weh-wey for tree, 
suggesting the waving of the tree's branches, he-wey 
for snake (pronounced with a soft breath), suggesting 
the noise of the snake in dry grass, and ah-tugah to 
chop. I watched her wrinkled old face with its far- 
off look and could see the memory of a word come to 
the surface and the feeling of satisfaction that came 
into her mind as she recalled the language of her 
youth. 

I sat there with my note-book open and after I had 
covered three or four pages I went back to words here 
and there to test her accuracy — I found that she really 
knew and was not trying to please. There were some 
words that would be good for successors to the 
Yakaboo — Mahouretch — Man o' War Bird; Hourali 
— surf; and Toulouma — pretty girl. At last she 
turned to me and said, "Ruh bai dahfedif" — "Give me 
a penny?" — whereupon I produced a shilling. Her joy 



150 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

knew no bounds; it would keep her in tobacco for a 
month. 

That night we gathered in one of the huts and 
swapped yarns to the best of our abilities. I had been 
with the Caribs for some days and yet there was no 
hint at that familiarity that would be apt to come with 
a similar visit to a similar settlement of the natives 
of these islands. One is very apt to idealise in regard 
to the Indian, but I can say with absolute certainty 
that these people lived clean lives and kept themselves 
and their huts clean. 

The huts were all of about the same size, approxi- 
mately twelve by fifteen feet, of one story, and divided 
by a partition into two rooms with a door between, 
each room having a door opening outside. One of the 
rooms was for sleeping solely, while the other was 
both a sleeping and living room. While at first the 
houses seem very small, it must be remembered that 
the cooking was all done in separate ajoupas, and that 
most of the time these people live out of doors. They 
merely use their houses at night for sleeping purposes 
and as a shelter from rain. 

The beds were for the most part rough wooden 
settees, some with a tick filled with grass and leaves for 
a mattress. The floors were usually the native soil, 
tamped hard by the pressure of countless bare feet. A 
few of the more prosperous families had wooden floors 
in their huts. The walls were of wattles, woven and 
plastered with a clay that resembled cement, and the 
roofs were thatched with Guinea grass. There were 
usually two small square windows for each room. An 
attempt was made to conceal the bareness of the 




THE CARIB BOY OF ST. GEORGE'S WHO HAD BEEN BROUGHT TO 
GRENADA AFTER THE ERUPTION OF THE SOUFRIERE. 




YELLOW CARDS AT POINT ESPAGNOL. 



DAYS WITH A VANISHING RACE 151 

walls inside by covering them with old newspapers 
plastered on like wall paper. 

It was in such a newspapered room that we sat 
and smoked — that is, as many of us as could comfort- 
ably squeeze on the settee or squat on haunches on the 
floor, the overflow crowding about the open door. In 
this particular room there was one decoration, a piece 
de resistance that brought the hut and its owner to 
even a higher level of grandeur than newspapered wall 
or floor of American lumber. It hung from the central 
beam just above headroom and yet low enough so that 
one might reach up and reverentially touch its smooth 
surface. 

From the darkened look of the inner surface I could 
see that it was a burned-out sixteen-candle power elec- 
tric light bulb. When far out to sea in his canoe, the 
owner had one day picked it up thinking that it was 
some sort of bottle. When he saw the trembling fila- 
ment inside and could find no cork or opening he knew 
that it was for no utilitarian purpose and must be a 
valuable piece of bric-a-brac. It had probably been 
thrown overboard from some steamer passing to wind- 
ward bound for Barbados. 

Did I know what it was ? Our conversation hung on 
it for a long time. Yes, I knew, but to make them 
understand it was a source of light — that was the 
trouble. Sometimes it is disastrous to know too much. 
I explained it as simply as I could and the Caribs 
nodded their heads, but there was a doubt in their 
eyes that was not to be mistaken. The fact that the 
tiny black thread inside that globe should be the source 



152 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

of light equal to sixteen candles was utterly beyond 
their comprehension. 

I was turning over the leaves of my portfolio when 
a photograph of my sister dropped out. The old 
doctor picked it up and as she passed it to me her eyes 
fell upon it. She gave a start. Might she look at it 
closely, she asked? It was one of those ultra modern 
prints, on a rough mat paper, shadowy and sketchy, 
showing depth and life. The Caribs all crowded 
around to look. Such a natural picture they had never 
seen before. When the old woman at last gave it to 
me she said of my sister who was looking right at us, 
"We see she, she no see we," which struck me as a bit 
uncanny. 

I was loafing through my last afternoon in the 
village. Wandering around the huts in the grove, I 
stopped at an ajoupa, where one of the women was 
baking something on the hot surface of a sheet of 
iron. It somehow reminded me of the thin pancake 
bread that the people of Cairo bake on the surface of 
a kettle upturned over a hot dung fire. I sat down to 
watch her bake and lit my pipe. I was a queer man, 
she said, to sit down in this humble ajoupa just to 
watch her bake cassava cakes. "No Englis do dat," 
she added. I had, of course, eaten the cassava before 
and on my way up through the Grenadines I had seen 
the negro women raking the coarse flour back and forth 
in a shallow dish over a bed of hot coals, but I waited 
till I was in the Carib country before I should see the 
mysteries, if there were any, of the making of cassava 
cakes. 

The cassava is a root, Manihot utilissima, which 



DAYS WITH A VANISHING RACE 153 

grows very much like our potato and may weigh as 
much as twenty-five or thirty pounds. Ordinarily, it is 
dug up when it is about the size of a large beet. In 
the raw state it is highly poisonous, the juice contain- 
ing hydrocyanic acid. The root is cleaned by scraping 
it with a knife, then it is sliced and grated. The grating 
is done on a board with pieces of tin nailed to it. The 
tin has previously been perforated so that the upper 
surface is roughened like the outside of a nutmeg 
grater. This coarse flour is then heated over a hot 
charcoal fire. In this way the hydrocyanic acid is 
dissipated by the heat — a sort of wooden hoe or rake 
being used to keep the flour from burning. 

The woman in the ajoupa had built a hot fire 
between three stones on which was placed a flat iron 
plate about two feet in diameter. In the old days a flat 
stone was used. She prepared the flour by adding 
just enough water to make it slightly moist. On the 
hot plate she laid a circular iron band about eighteen 
inches in diameter — the hoop off some old water cask — 
and inside this she spread the cassava meal to the 
thickness of a quarter of an inch. She then removed 
the hoop and levelled the cassava with the straight 
edge of a flat stick. 

The cake baked very quickly and when it was done 
enough to hang together she turned it with a flat 
wooden paddle three inches wide in the blade and 
about eighteen inches long. As soon as a cake was 
done she carried it outside and hung it to cool and 
dry on a light pole supported by two forked uprights. 
From a distance the cassava cakes looked like a lot 
of large doilies drying in the sun. 



154 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

In the evening, when Batiste came from his fishing, 
I told him that I was ready to go back to Chateau 
Belaire. There may have been much more for me to 
observe among these people — the life was easy and I 
had never before had a more fascinating view from 
the door of my tent. But there was the call of the 
channel, I must have my try at it and it had been many 
days since I had sailed the Yakaboo. So we had our 
last palaver that evening around the glow of the coal- 
pot and the gommier flambeau. 

The old wrinkled sea egg doctor insisted upon 
hovering over my coal-pot the next morning, while I 
broke camp and packed my duffle. Her presence had 
given my parting food a genuine Carib blessing. By 
sun-up I bade them all good-bye and with Batiste 
and his men before me — my house and its goods bal- 
anced on their heads — I left the village. At a sharp 
bend, where the road curves in by "Bloody Bridge," I 
turned and had my last peep at the Carib huts. 



CHAPTER VII 

DELIGHTS OF CHANNEL RUNNING JOSEPHINE IN 

SAINT LUCIA 

THE next morning, March 30th, found me once 
more in the Yakaboo rowing out of the bay of 
Chateau Belaire half an hour after sunrise. The 
night had been an anxious one on the morgue-suggesting 
cot of the rest room in the police station — for the 
devilish impish gusts had swept down one after the 
other from the Soufriere and shaken that house till I 
thought it would blow over like a paper box and go 
sailing out into the bay. If those fellows caught us 
in the channel what would the poor Yakaboo do? 

I argued that the wind coming down the smooth 
plane of the mountain slope and shooting out across 
the water had developed a velocity far greater than 
anything I should meet in the channel. Perhaps so — 
but I should learn a bit about it later. I somehow 
bamboozled my mind into quiescence and at last fell 
asleep. Almost immediately the big, burly Barbadian 
awoke me. In an hour and a half I had rowed the 
six and a half miles to Point DeVolet, where I set sail. 

I was now started on my first long channel run and 
it was with considerable interest if not anxiety that I 
watched the canoe and the seas. I had a lurking 
suspicion that I had made a grievous error when I 

155 



156 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

had designed the Yakaboo; I had perhaps erred on the 
side of safety and had given her a too powerful mid- 
ship section in proportion to her ends. That was the 
feeling I had while sailing in the channels of the 
Grenadines. I was still travelling eastward as well as 
northward, and I knew that it would only be by the 
most careful windward work that I should be able to 
fetch the Pitons, thirty-one miles away. The wind 
on this day was the same trade that I had met with 
lower down, but the seas were longer than those of the 
Grenadines, and, if not so choppy, were more vicious 
when they broke ; there would be less current to carry 
me to leeward. 

I had scarcely got her under way and was still under 
the lee of the land when the first sea came, like the 
hoary hand of Neptune himself and we turned to meet 
it. Aft I slid, she lifted her bow — just enough — and 
the sea broke under us — and we dropped down its 
steep back, with lighter hearts. In with the mainsheet 
and we were off again, the canoe tearing along like a 
scared cotton-tail — a little white bunch under her 
stern. There was something worth while in this and 
I kept my eyes to weather for the next sea. Again we 
met it and came through triumphant. Perhaps I had 
not erred after all. Another sprint and so on. 

After a while the Yakaboo seemed to lag a little 
and hang her head like a tired pony. It was the 
forward compartment that was leaking again and I ran 
her into the wind, dropping the jib and mainsail. The 
little mizzen aft, flat as a board, held her directly 
into the wind's eye (which I believe is the best position 



DELIGHTS OF CHANNEL RUNNING 157 

for a very small craft hove-to), and I could go about 
sponging out the compartment. 

I had, of course, to keep a sharp lookout ahead for 
breaking seas. If a sea threatened, I would hastily 
clap on the forehatch and give the screws a couple of 
turns and then roll back on my haunches into the after 
end of the cockpit. My precious camera was lashed 
half way up the mizzen mast. Lightened of the water 
in her forehold I would hoist the mainsail and jib 
and give her rein, that is, trim her sheets for another 
scamper to windward. She was the spirited pony again. 

That we were travelling well there could be no 
doubt. The wind was blowing at least twenty miles 
an hour and the canoe was covering her length with 
the smooth action of a thoroughbred. Yet when I 
looked astern after the first hour it seemed as though 
we were still under the shadow of Saint Vincent. 
I knew later that we had made five miles. It was 
discouraging to look backwards, and I did very little 
of it in my runs afterwards. I would wait till the 
greyish blue of the island ahead had turned to blue and 
was shading into green and then I would look back to 
the island that I had just left and I would estimate 
that I was perhaps half way across the channel. Having 
assured myself that I really was half way across, I 
kept my eyes over the bow, noting the minute changes 
of the land ahead. But I am not yet half way across 
this channel. 

Soon my eye began to focus on a persistent whitecap 
that my brain refused to believe was a sail. But the 
eye insisted and the brain had to give in when the 
speck refused to move — it was always there, just to lee- 



158 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

ward of the Pitons — and it grew into a definite shape. 
Its course must almost cross mine, for as it grew 
larger and larger, it edged to windward closing in on 
the Pitons and was at last directly on my course. 
Nearer it came till I could make out the figure of a 
man poised erect out over the water. Another second 
and I could see the line to which he was holding and 
which ran to the top of the mast. His feet were on 
the gunwale. Then I distinguished several forms aft 
of him in the canoe, all leaning far out to windward 
to see what strange bird the Yakaboo might be, coming 
up out of the south. 

The news of my coming had not jumped the channel 
ahead of me, but these fellows had recognised my 
rig from afar as a rarity — something to investigate. I 
shall never forget the picture of them rushing by. 
They might have been Caribs of old descending, like 
the Vikings that they were, on some island to be con- 
quered. They came down the wind with terrific speed, 
the water foaming white under them, a third of the 
keel showing, the glistening forefoot leaving a train 
of drops like a porpoise clearing the water. 

For an instant my eye held it; the man poised over 
the sea; the figures in the boat, bronze and ebony, tense 
with excitement; the white, sun-bleached sails, now 
outlined against a blue sky and now thrown against 
an indigo sea, rivalling the brilliant snowy clouds above. 
As they shot by, close abeam, their arms shot up and 
they gave me a mighty yell while I waved my hat and 
shouted back at them. If this sight of a single canoe 
coming down the wind thrilled the hairs along my 
spine into an upright position, what would my feeling 



DELIGHTS OF CHANNEL RUNNING 159 

have been to see a whole fleet of them as in the old 
days? I would not look back — I wanted the memory 
of that passing to remain as it was and I sailed on, 
thinking for some time of each detail as it was indel- 
ibly impressed upon my mind. 

Like most of us, who are blessed with a lean body, 
I also have that blessing which usually goes with it — 
an appetite which is entirely out of all proportion to 
the size of that lean body. Nervous energy as well as 
manual labour requires food and when I made my 
channel runs there was an expenditure of both — and I 
needed feeding. I always had food handy in my 
cockpit. 

My mainstay was the jelly coconut or water-nut 
as they call it. This is the coconut that has not yet 
reached the stage where the meat is the hard, white 
substance which we meet in the kitchen pantry in the 
shredded form, but is still in the baby stage when 
the meat is soft and jelly-like. In this stage the milk 
is not so rich as later on, but is a sort of sweet coco- 
tasting water. I never wanted for a supply of coco- 
nuts. 

The natives along shore invariably saw to it that 
there were four or five of them in my cockpit, prepared 
for instant use in the following manner: the native 
balances the nut on the palm of the left hand, while 
with a cutlass (not called machete in these islands 
that have not known the Spaniard, except as a pirate), 
he cuts through the hard, smooth surface of the husk 
and trims the pulpy mass, where the stem joins the 
nut, into a point. At any time, then, with a single 
slice of my knife, I could lop off this pulpy point and 



160 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

cut through the soft stem end of the inner shell, making 
a small hole through which I could drink the water. 

When first it passes over your tongue, jaded by the 
civilised drinks which have a tang to them, your judg- 
ment will be, "Insipid!" Go out into the open and 
leave ice water a week behind you and your tongue will 
recover some of its precivilised sensitiveness. You will 
swear that there is nothing so cool nor delicious as the 
water of the jelly coconut. After the water has been 
drunk there is yet the jelly to be eaten. First a slice 
of the husk is cut off to be used as a spoon. Then, 
using my knife as a wedge and my axe as a driver, I 
split open the nut and scooped out the jelly from the 
halves. 

When my supply of pilot bread ran out I carried 
soda crackers and sometimes the unleavened bread of 
the natives. Raw peameal sausage helped out at times 
and there was, of course, the chocolate of which I 
have spoken before. I also carried other tropical 
fruits besides coconuts, mangoes, bananas, pineapples, 
but I never ate more than one sort on a run. The coco- 
nut was my mainstay, however, and that with a little 
bread and a piece of chocolate would make an excellent 
stop-gap till I could reach shore and cook a substantial 
evening meal. 

I was now half way across the channel, I judged, for 
neither island had the advantage of nearness nor 
distance. After a while Vieux Fort began to work 
its way to windward of me and the canoe was still 
hanging bravely on to the Pitons. She was doing 
excellent work to windward, creeping up the long 
hollows in pilot's luffs as is the habit of this rudderless 



DELIGHTS OF CHANNEL RUNNING 161 

craft. The sum total of these small distances eaten to 
windward a little more than made up for what we lost 
when we lay-to for a combing sea. Saint Lucia had 
long since changed from a misty grey to blue grey, and 
then slowly the green of the vegetation began to assert 
itself in varying shades as patches of cultivation became 
defined. Dun-coloured spots on the hillsides took the 
shapes of native huts. It was like the very slow devel- 
opment of a huge photographic plate. 

When within a few miles of the island the wind 
began to draw to the south'ard, and as I eased the 
sheets of the canoe, she quickened her pace like a 
horse headed for home. The plate was developing 
rapidly — I could make out the trees on the mountain 
ridges and the beaches along shore. Vieux Fort was 
on our beam, the Pitons towered over us; then with 
the hum of tarred rigging in a gale, the center-board 
of the Yakaboo crooned its parting song to the channel 
and we lost our motion in the glassy calm of Soufriere 
Bay. We had completed our first long jump. 

High above me the projectile form of the Petit Piton 
tore an occasional wraith from the low-flying trade 
clouds. Inset in its steep side, some twenty feet above 
where I was now rowing, was a niched shrine to the 
Virgin Mary, to whom many a hasty prayer had been 
uttered during the fervour of bare deliverance from 
the rafales (squalls) of the channel, prayers probably 
quickly forgotten in these calm waters under the Pitons 
and the memory of them soon washed away in the little 
rum shops of the coast town, which gets its name from 
the Soufriere in the hills above it and gives that name 
to the bay before it. By this sign of the Virgin Mary, 



162 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

I was leaving for a time the Protestant faith of the 
outer Antilles and entering the Catholic. In a measure, 
I was leaving the English for the French, for although 
Saint Lucia has been in the possession of the English 
since 1803, there still remains the old Creole atmos- 
phere of the French regime. 

As I swung around the base of the smaller Piton, 
the levelling rays of the late afternoon sun caught the 
distant walls of wooden houses weatherworn to a 
silky sheen. The dull red of a tiled roof here and 
there, the sharp white of what I soon learned were the 
police buildings, broke the drab monotone of the town. 
A little coasting steamer backed out, crab-like, from 
a cane-laden jetty and as we passed in the bay, three 
white cotton tufts from her whistle tooted my first 
welcome to Saint Lucia. 

I had planned to show my papers to the police at 
Soufriere and then to pitch my tent on some sandy 
beach beyond a point that interested me just north of 
the town. I should then have a good start for my row 
along the lee coast on the next day and I should soon be 
channel running again — to Martinique and the Empress 
Josephine — I had an especial interest in her. 

But one never knows. It happened at Carriacou 
and it is apt to happen at any time. The perverse imp, 
whatever his name may be, thrives on the upsetting 
of plans. I had no sooner crawled up on the jetty 
of Soufriere and stretched my legs when a black limb 
of the law confronted me. 

"Dis no port ob entry," he said; "you mus' go to 
Castries." 

Castries was sixteen miles farther along the coast 



DELIGHTS OF CHANNEL RUNNING 163 

and I had already travelled forty-two miles since sun- 
up. I looked at my watch and the hands showed four- 
thirty. I looked out over the sea and saw the sun, 
like an impatient boy rushing through his chores, racing 
for his bath in the horizon, a huge molten drop, trick- 
ling down the inverted bowl of the firmament. If I 
now took to my canoe again and slept on the beach 
somewhere up the shore, I should get into trouble at 
Castries for I had already put my foot on shore. 

I finally decided that it was two of one and half a 
dozen of another — two being the trouble I should get 
into by staying here and six being the trouble I might 
get into in the proportionately larger town of Cas- 
tries. Confound a government that spends thirty cents 
for red tape to wrap up a package worth ten ! 

Up to this time, my coming had not been detected, 
but with the increasing agitation of the policeman, it 
dawned upon the jetty stragglers that something 
unusual was on foot. Some one noticed the strange 
canoe tethered like a patient animal to one of the 
legs of the jetty. Some one else noticed that there was 
a strange person talking with the policeman. I was 
rapidly being discovered by a horde of babbling, ragged 
beach-loafers and fishermen, who followed like swarm- 
ing bees as we made our way to the police buildings. 
The swarm was effectually barricaded outside as we 
entered the building, where I showed my papers to 
Sergeant Prout. 

In these islands when precedent lacks, complexity 
arises. And here was something complex — a man 
who travelled alone, voyaging in the daytime and 
sleeping at night on whatever beach he happened to 



164* ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

land. The sergeant must needs have advice, so he 
sent for the leading merchant of the town and the 
lawyer. The merchant, being a man of business, said, 
"Ask your superior," and the lawyer, being a man 
of caution, said, "Place the responsibility on some one 
else," at which the sergeant telephoned to His 
Majesty's Treasurer at Castries. The reply I did not 
hear. My canoe was carried into the cobbled court- 
yard of the police buildings and my outfit was locked 
up in a cell next to that of a thief. 

"And now," said I, "if you will lend me a coal-pot 
and lock me up with my outfit I shall cook my supper 
and go to bed." Not a smile on the faces around me. 

"But there is an hotel in thee town," came from a 
voice at my side, and not much higher than my belt, 
"I will conduc' you there." He pronounced "hotel" 
with a lisp that made it more like "hostel," and called 
the article "thee." I looked down and beheld him 
who was to be my henchman during my stay in 
Soufriere. He was a little fellow, black as the record 
of a trust magnate and with a face that went with 
the name of Joseph Innocent. 

I would take Sergeant Prout's word for anything 
and his nod in answer to my questioning look was a 
good voucher for Joseph. And so we walked out, 
Joseph parting the crowd before me, proudly carrying 
my camera and portfolio while I followed, a pace or 
two behind, to observe the quaint old town. Laid out 
in regular squares, the houses toed the line of the 
sidewalks in one continuous wall from street to street. 
For the most part, the walls were bare of paint, or if 
paint had ever been used, it had long since been 



DELIGHTS OF CHANNEL RUNNING 165 

crumbled by the sun and washed away by the rain. 
To relieve the dead geometric regularity, picturesque 
grilled balconies overhung the sidewalks, giving proof 
that at some time there had been life in the streets 
worth observing. 

We passed the open square of the market with the 
bare, sun-heated church at the far end, facing the west, 
as though its memories lay forever behind it. Joseph 
stopped at one of the myriad doors in the walls of 
houses. Would I ever be able to find this door again? 
— and I stepped from the street into the cool dark 
salle a manger of this West Indian hotel. The mula- 
tresse, who received me, was of a better looking type, 
I thought, than the Creole negress of the English islands. 
"Could I have food and room for the night?" 

"Mais oui," for, in spite of my shifty appearance my 
camera and portfolio were badges of respectability 
and vouched for me. I despatched Joseph for some 
cigarettes and while awaiting his return I noticed that 
the mulatresse was setting places for two. I was to 
have company — a comforting thought when I could 
not be alone on the beach. I am never so lonesome as 
when eating alone, where there are people about. On 
the beach I should have had the company of the 
setting sun, the tropical starlit night, and the murmur 
of the little rippling surf on the smooth sands — but 
here! the shuffling of the silent negress as she placed 
the food before me would have been loneliness itself. 

When Joseph came with the tin of cigarettes, I 
offered him a "thrupence," for he had served me well. 
But he was a diplomat from his wide-spreading toes 
to his apish face. There is a patois saying, "Zo quite 



166 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

yone boude plein fait zo sote," — "Don't let a bellyful 
fool you." 

"No ! You give me de two copper," indicating the 
coins in my hand, "for you need de silver for other 
person." He was an artist, I learned later, and cared 
little for money — but would I get him some paints 
and brushes when I reached Castries? 

The mulatresse had scarcely announced, "Monsieur 
est servi," when the other guest entered. He was an 
Englishman — of the island — spare and well-groomed, 
as one generally finds them, a government engineer on 
his monthly tour inspecting the telephone system, which 
girdles the island. While we ate our thon (tuna) our 
conversation turned on the tuna fisheries of Martinique 
and I mentioned Josephine and Trois-Ilets. 

"Josephine! Martinique! Why man alive! Jo- 
sephine spent part of her childhood days right here in 
Soufriere and I don't know but what she was born 
on this island — in the northern part — at Morne Paix- 
Bouche." 

And so it happened that I was to be denied the beach 
to stumble upon a page or two of that life of contrasts 
— pathetic and romantic — of the Empress Josephine. 
Over our coffee and cigarettes my friend told me of 
Pere Remaud of the parish of Gros-Islet in the north 
of Saint Lucia — the man who knew more about 
Josephine's life in this island than any one else. I 
decided, then, to spend some time in Saint Lucia and 
I learned many things about her — but who wants to 
read dry history sandwiched in between salty channel 
runs? Our conversation turned to other things and 




V-'tf v.V 



DELIGHTS OF CHANNEL RUNNING 167 

then died out even as the glow of our cigarettes. We 
were both tired and mutually glad to turn in. 

But the wakening effect of the coffee and the cold 
funereal sheets of the high antique four-poster onto 
which I had climbed to rest, kept off slumber for a 
while. What a cruise of contrasts it was — from the 
primitive life of the Carib living on fish and cassava, 
I had sailed in a day from the fifteenth century into 
the eighteenth. From my roll of blankets on the 
high ground of Point Espagfiol I had come to the more 
civilised, but not more comfortable, husk mattress of 
the French regime. I was not long in deciding that 
the husk mattress was no less aged than the four- 
poster. Perhaps the friends of Josephine had slept 
in this bed, on this very mattress — whatever their 
sins may have been may this have shriven them! Sad- 
ness entered my mood and I fell asleep. 

Can the lover of small indulgences begin the day 
better than I began my first morning in Saint Lucia? 
At six there was a knock at my door, followed by the 
entrance of the mulatresse bearing a huge basin of 
cold water with a calabash floating on its surface, the 
simplest and yet the most delightful bath I have known. 
Scarcely had I slipped on my clothes — the mulatresse 
must have known by the sounds the progress of my 
toilet — when another knock ushered in a small pot of 
steaming Liberian coffee such as only they of the 
French islands can grow and brew. There is but 
one sequence to this — a cigarette. This, then, was 
my formula, after which I stepped out onto the street 
where Joseph was waiting for me. 

Not far from the town, up in the hills, lies Ventine, 



168 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

the beauty spot of Saint Lucia. This is the safety valve, 
a sort of Hell's Half Acre, that saved Saint Lucia 
during the eruptions of Saint Vincent and Martinique. 
As the well-kept road wound upward, lined with 
orderly fields and occasional clumps of trees, I could 
easily imagine myself to be in southern Europe, for 
the morning was still cool and the road free except for 
an infrequent figure shuffling along at its ease with 
its burden balanced on top. It was pleasant to hear 
the prattle of Joseph with its French construction of 
the English and that soft inflection, which we lack so 
much in our own harsh language. 

"Look! you see that bird there? Eet ees call the 
cuckoo mayoque by the Creole. They say that God, 
w'en he was building the world (but I don' beleeve it) , 
ask the cuckoo to carry stone to the stream. But the 
cuckoo would not do it because it would soil his beauti- 
ful fethaire. Then God say, 'For that you shall never 
drink from the stream an' eef you do you will drown.' 
An' now the cuckoo can only get water from the flowers 
and leaves." 

A little farther on, he darted to the side of the road 
and brought back a leaf of the silver fern. He told me 
to hold out my hand — "no, wiz zee back upwards." 
Placing the leaf on the brown skin he gave it a slap and 
the leaf slipped off leaving the delicate tracery of its 
form in a silver powder. And so it was on that delight- 
ful walk, I came to like the little native, bright and full 
of spirit. Some day he may, as a regular duty, open 
my door in the morning and say, "Will you have your 
coffee now, sir, or w'en you arize?" 

We finally arrived at the Ventine, which is the thin- 



DELIGHTS OF CHANNEL RUNNING 169 

crusted floor of an ancient crater. The sulphur smell 
that greeted me brought back memories of Yellowstone 
Park. From Southern Europe I had been whisked back 
to the States. And to carry the illusion still further 
I found there three Americans, Foster, Green and 
Smith (good plain Yankee names of no pretension), 
who were working the sulphur of the crater. We fell 
on each other's necks, so to speak. 

One needed a guide and Foster took me about on 
the hot floor to see the boiling mud pools and the 
steam jets. On our way up to the cottage where the 
men lived with their families Foster showed me the 
natural advantages of living in a place like this. The 
region of the Ventine would be a wonderful place of 
retirement for the rheumatic cripple. Here were hot 
springs of temperatures from tepid to boiling, cold 
mountain streams that made natural shower baths, as 
they tumbled down the rocks, and pools of curative 
mineral water. 

As we walked along the path Foster dug his hands 
into the bank. "When you want to wash your hands 
just reach into the side of the hill — here — and haul 
out a lump of this soft clay stuff. Rub your hands to- 
gether and a little farther on — here — you have the 
choice of either hot or cold water to wash it off in. 
You see, my hands are as soft as a baby's skin." 

He talked like an advertisement. They are planning 
to build a hotel at the Ventine some day. If they do it 
will be a new Soufriere come to life and I can imagine 
no more delightful resort. 

We left the Ventine in the cool of the afternoon 
and passing the town walked out along the broad 



170 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

east road to the ruins of the old French baths, where 
the aristocracy of France, some of them exiles, and 
some come to the island to recoup their fortunes, were 
wont to take the cure. There is but little now remain- 
ing, a few walls, a tank into which the sulphur water 
flows from the mountain stream, and a massive stone 
arch set in a thick woods that takes two hours from 
each end of the day and holds a gloom like a shroud 
for the dead past. A cow was grazing where grace 
once trod and where perhaps the little "Yeyette"* came 
with her elders. That evening I chatted with a man, 
Monsieur Devaux, whose grandaunt, Mademoiselle 
Petit L'Etang, had often spoken of having played with 
the little Josephine, at the estate of Malmaison in the 
hills to the north of Soufriere. 

But there was little else to be learned and the next 
morning I left for Castries. 

Offshore, trying to claw into the wind against the 
tide, was a little sloop which somehow looked familiar. 
It was calm alongshore and I rowed for an hour. Then 
a breeze came directly from the north and I made 
sail for beating. As I neared the sloop on the out- 
tack she ran up a signal. I dropped my mainsail for 
an instant to let them know that I understood, and ran 
in again on the other tack. She was the Glen Nevis 
from Grenada and had called at Kingstown on her 
way to Saint Lucia with ice. 

When she followed me into port an hour later, 
I found that my Man Friday of St. George's was in 
command. They had left Kingstown the day before I 
had left Chateau Belaire, and although I had stopped 

♦Childhood name of the Empress Josephine. 



DELIGHTS OF CHANNEL RUNNING 171 

off a day at Soufriere, I beat them into Castries by an 
hour. In other words, it had taken them seventy-two 
hours to cover the sixty miles from Kingstown to 
Castries. My time for travelling the same distance 
was twenty hours. This showed the advantage of the 
canoe as a vehicle in these waters, for I could not 
only sail the rough channels but also slip along under 
the lee of the islands where the larger boats would be 
helplessly becalmed. As these fellows sail they must, 
of necessity, lose valuable ground to windward by 
dropping away from the island they are leaving to 
avoid calms and then they must beat their way up to 
the next island. 

Compared with Grenada and Saint Vincent, the lee 
coast of Saint Lucia is low and uninteresting except for 
two wonderful harbours, close together, near the 
northern end; Cul-de-Sac, the location of the Usine- 
Central for the manufacture of sugar, and Castries, 
the coaling station of the English islands, with its 
Vigie, the lately abandoned Gibraltar of the British 
West Indies.* It was in the hills between these almost 
landlocked harbours that Sir John Moore fought with 
the French and the Caribs and learned the real art 
of warfare that made possible his marvellous retreat 
at Coruria. 

As we approached Castries, a large, white yacht 
came up from over the horizon and slipped into the 
harbour. She proved to be the Atmah — belonging to 
Edouard Rothschild and flying the French flag. She 
had bumped on a reef south of Cuba and came here 

* Shortly after the outbreak of the present war in Europe the Vigie 
was fortified with guns brought over from Martinique and gar- 
risoned in 1 91 5 by a company of Canadian soldiers. 



172 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

to coal before going home to dock. A Norwegian 
tramp, probably owned by an American company, stole 
around the south of the island and came up behind me, 
a huge mass of ocean-going utility, and swung into 
port after the yacht. 

An Englishman came out, relieved of coals she had 
brought from Cardiff, her rusty sides high out of water, 
the tips of her propeller making a white haystack under 
her counter. The little coasting steamer, which had 
saluted me two days before, bustled out of her home 
on her daily run to Vieux Fort. 

There was commerce in this port — I had not been 
near a steamer for two months. Before sailing into 
the harbour, we made an inquisitive tack offshore in 
order to have a peep at Martinique. There she lay — 
a little to the westward of Saint Lucia; the arc was 
swinging back and I should soon be in the Leeward 
islands. Distinct against the haze of Martinique stood 
the famous Diamond Rock and here, only six miles 
off, lay Pigeon Island, lifting its head, a lion couchant 
with Fort Rodney in its mane. 

On the other tack we ran into the busy harbour. 
French, English, and Norwegian flags were there. 
My little ensign, no larger than a bandana handker- 
chief, was all that represented the United States in this 
large company. But the Yakaboo flitted past her over- 
grown children — for after all the canoe is the mother 
of them all — to a quiet corner that showed no change 
since the advent of steam. 

I had decided to spend some time in Castries — look- 
ing into the past of a certain lady. I ought to make 
the type appear shamefaced as I write this, but you 



DELIGHTS OF CHANNEL RUNNING 173 

already know who the lady is, or was, and that she 
has been dead nearly a century and her past was a 
romance. There comes an indefinable sense of peace 
and quiet when one sails into a secure and almost 
landlocked harbour such as the carenage of Castries, 
but I did not know that I was only sailing from the 
vicissitudes of the Caribbean to the uncertainties of a 
veritable sea of hearsay concerning Josephine. 

For instance, there was an old negro who had seen 
the Empress in Castries when a little child. Whether 
he was the little child, or she was the little child, I do 
not know — perhaps it was Castries that was the little 
child. He was brought to me one day as I stood in the 
street chatting with one of the merchants of the town. 

"Undoubtedly old," I said to my friend, as one 
would comment upon a piece of furniture. He seemed 
a youth compared with some of our old Southern 
darkies, shrivelled and cotton-tufted. 

"Quel age?" I yelled at him, for he was somewhat 
deaf. 

"Cent onze e* sep y s } mains" came the answer. One 
hundred and eleven years and seven weeks ! If I had 
not caught him unawares he might have given the 
days and hours. 

But his age was not so remarkable as his memory. 
He remembered having seen Josephine on the streets 
and especially at the time when she left Saint Lucia for 
Martinique on her way to France to marry Beauhar- 
nais. There was no doubting that honest old face and 
there was nothing but admiration for a memory that 
reached back not only to youth and childhood, but 
even to prenatal existence. He was born two years 



174 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

after Josephine had paid her last visit to these islands! 
I took his photograph and paid him a shilling, which 
shows that a wonderful memory is nothing if not a 
commercial asset. 

My papers from St. George's, which had been 
vised from port to port would serve me no longer 
since I was now leaving for Martinique, which was 
French. One morning I walked into the office of the 
French consul, who, it seemed to me, was suspiciously 
suave and gracious. The idea of travelling about in a 
boat of less than a quarter of a ton was very amusing. 
He filled in the blanks of an impressive document, 
which I stuck in my pocket. When I asked the amount- 
of the fee he said, "Twenty francs." "Whew!" I 
muttered to myself, "no wonder he was so blasted 
polite." 

Out past the Vigie and I was happy again. One is 
always glad to run into port, but the voyager is doubly 
glad to leave it again. There are countless petty annoy- 
ances on shore that one never meets on the broad seas. 
I often worry about the weather, but most of that 
worry is done when I am ashore. As soon as I stepped 
into the canoe that morning I felt that I was leaving 
my small troubles on the stone quay, whimpering like 
a pack of forlorn dogs. I should lose sight of them 
and the quay as soon as I rounded the Vigie. 

After sailing through two rain squalls and making 
an investigating tack under Pigeon Island, I headed 
for the beach of the village of Gros-Islet, for I had 
business there. I wanted to see Pere Remaud and 
examine some of the parish signatures. As I beached 
the canoe, Henry Belmar, a fine young colonial Eng- 



DELIGHTS OF CHANNEL RUNNING 175 

lishman, came through the crowd of natives to meet 
me. He was riding through Gros-Islet on govern- 
mental duties, had seen me in the bay, and had ordered 
food at one of the houses in the town. The thoughtful 
hospitality of the colonial Englishman has often made 
me think upon the manner in which we too often treat 
the stranger who comes to our shores. If he is outre, 
we lionize him and the women make a freak of him. 
If he is of our own kind, we let him shift for himself. 
We drank our febrifuge with the usual "chin-chin," 
and after luncheon set out for the house of Pere 
Remaud. 

The priest was a young man, full of strength and 
vigour, much, I thought, as Pere Labat would have been 
had we known him in our age. Pere Remaud was 
interested in the things of the world. He lived for 
his parish, read, shot ramiers (pigeons), and could 
talk intimately on the politics of my own country. 
While I had been eating with Belmar, the priest had 
been down to the beach to see my canoe and at the 
moment when we arrived he was hastily turning the 
leaves of a French sporting catalogue to see whether 
he might discover to just what species the Yakaboo 
belonged — much as he would attempt to classify a 
strange flower which he had found in the hills of his 
parish. 

I spent the afternoon with him, looking over the 
old parish records. But for the faded paper on which 
they stood out in bold lines, the letters and signatures 
might have been written yesterday. There was the 
signature of Louis Raphael Martin, a planter of Saint 
Lucia, who had known Josephine here and had been 



176 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

received by her at Malmaison in France. There was 
that of Auguste Hosten under the date of 1810, who, 
Frederic Masson says, loaned a large sum of money to 
Josephine at the time of the Revolution, when the 
guillotine had taken her first husband and before she 
met Napoleon. 

We talked, and I made many notes during the long 
afternoon till at last the yellow sunshine gave warning 
that I must leave. Pere Remaud came down to the 
beach with me and as we heeled to the evening breeze 
I heard his last "Bon voyage" above the babble of the 
natives. 

The same puff that carried the last adieux of Pere 
Remaud helped us across the white sandy floor of the 
bay and left us, close to the shores of Pigeon Island. 
Three whaleboats were lying on the beach and as I 
stepped ashore their crews came straggling down to 
meet me. I found that the man in command of the sta- 
tion was Napoleon Olivier of Bequia, a brother of Jose 
at Caille, and I was again in my whaling days of the 
Grenadines. I was soon as far from Josephine and 
Pere Remaud as the twentieth century is from the 
eighteenth — but not for long. Accompanied by the 
two sons of Olivier, I climbed to the famous old fort, 
now called "Rodney," where that admiral, second only 
to Nelson, watched for the French fleet to come out 
of their hiding in the bay of Fort Royal (now Fort de 
France) , thirty miles to the north, in Martinique. His 
own fleet lay below him in the Saint Croix roads, like 
impatient hounds tugging at their leashes, eager to be 
in chase of their quarry. 

The French at last slipped out on the night of April 



DELIGHTS OF CHANNEL RUNNING 177 

8th, 1782, the news of their departure being signalled 
to Rodney by means of a chain of English lookout 
ships. Rodney was immediately on their heels and 
on the 1 2th met the French in the Dominica channel, 
where he fought the battle of "The Saints." 

The fort itself is scarcely more than a rampart with 
a powder magazine on the east side and a flag-staff 
stepping in the center. There were no guns left and the 
trees, growing out of the pavement, told of long years 
of disuse. The sun had dropped below the ridge of the 
island as we scrambled down again through long rank 
grass, waist-high, and through a small dark grove of 
trees, among which there were several tombs of officers, 
their inscriptions still decipherable, the last narrow 
earthly homes of men who had died while stationed 
here, not from the bullets of the French, but from 
the insidious attack of that enemy which they knew not 
— the mosquito. 

I cooked my supper with the whalemen in the ruins 
of the old barracks. A rain tank, still intact from the 
time of the occupation, furnished water and I was soon 
yarning with Olivier over the bubbling pots. The 
season had been a bad one, only one small whale had 
been caught. One of the best harpooners was lying 
sick with fever in Gros-Islet, and the whole outfit was 
in a state of black dejection. 

Poor Olivier ! He was not only doomed to lose his 
harpooner, for three years later when I sailed my 
schooner into the quiet haven of Bequia he came aboard 
and, sitting on the top step of the companionway, he 
told me with tears in his eyes that one of his sons, who 
had taken me up to the fort, had died of fever shortly 



178 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

after I had left Pigeon Island. He had no photograph 
to remember his son by, but he remembered that I had 
taken a snap-shot on the rampart — would I give him 
a print? 

Supper over, we put up impromptu tents in the long, 
soft grass above the beach where the boats lay, for 
the ruins, they said, were full of fleas. It may have 
been fleas or it may have been superstition that 
inhabited the barracks with jumbies. The tents were 
impromptu, old sloop sails thrown over the masts of 
the whaleboats. One end of the masts rested on the 
ground while the other was supported by crossed oars 
lashed together about seven feet above ground. Had 
these shelters not been put up after sunset and 
taken down before sunrise I might have had an interest- 
ing photograph of shipwrecked mariners. I crawled in 
with Olivier, for it would save me the work of pitching 
my own tent. I was awakened by the chilly drizzle of 
a morning squall. 

As I got up and shook myself at sunrise — that is 
5 :5 1 on that particular day — (the sun did not rise for 
us until sometime later, when he edged above the 
Morne du Cap on Saint Lucia), the weather did not 
look promising. Had it been the fifth day of the first 
quarter I would not have started for Martinique, but 
it was the fifth of the second, which had shown a 
lamb-like disposition, and there were two days of it 
left — I was on the safe side. The indications were 
for rain rather than wind and I decided to take the 
chance. Olivier was a bit doubtful. 

I cooked my breakfast with the men in the barracks, 
dragged my canoe down to the water's edge and 



DELIGHTS OF CHANNEL RUNNING 179 

watched the weather. At eight o'clock, the rain having 
ceased, I bade good-bye to the whalers, who had 
decided not to try for humpbacks that day, and was off. 
As we sailed out through the reefs by Burgot Rocks 
the heavy surf gave warning that there would be 
plenty of wind outside. Once clear of Saint Lucia I 
laid my course for Diamond Rock, a good six points 
off the wind. 

What a comfort it was to ease my sheets a bit and 
to know that if the current began to take me to leeward 
I could make it up by working closer to windward. 
Those extra points were like a separate bank account 
laid up for a rainy day. 

The canoe enjoyed this work. She fairly flew, slid- 
ing into the deep troughs and climbing the tall seas 
in long diagonals. In half an hour Saint Lucia behind 
me was completely hidden by rain clouds and so was 
Martinique ahead. The two islands seemed to have 
wrapped themselves in their vaporous blankets in high 
dudgeon, like a couple of Indian bucks who have failed 
to wheedle whisky out of a passing tourist. Fearful 
lest the weather might break and come up from the 
southwest, I kept a constant watch on the procession of 
the trade clouds in the northeast, ready to come about 
with the first weakening of the wind. 

Afraid? not exactly — but cautious. The Yakaboo 
drove on like the sturdy little animal that she was. We 
now knew each other so well that we did not even 
bother to head into the breaking seas, except the very 
large ones. Some of them we could roll under and 
slip by. Others came aboard and at times I was waist 
deep in water and foam, sitting on the deck to wind- 



180 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

ward, my feet braced in the cockpit under the opposite 
coaming. If there had not been the danger of filling 
her sails with water, I could have made the main- 
sheet fast for she practically sailed herself. Between 
deluges, I bailed out the cockpit with a calabash. 

Once in a while she would hang her head and then 
I hove-to to bail out the forward compartment with a 
sponge. The exhilaration of the Saint Vincent channel 
was nothing compared to this. The water was warm 
and my constant ducking was not unpleasant. I thought 
I could feel a tingle in the region of my pre-evolute 
gills. 

It may seem strange that in these channel runs 
where the trade blew strong, the force of the wind 
never seemed to bother the canoe. Although it was 
usually blowing fully twenty miles an hour and often 
twenty-five, I was obliged to reef my sails but four 
times on the whole cruise; on the run to Dominica, 
when the wind was very strong; again, under the lee 
of Dominica ; in the run to Guadeloupe, when the canoe 
was going too fast in a following sea, and, for the same 
reason, on my run to Saba. I have often carried full 
sail when a large sloop has been obliged to reef. 

The reason for this is that the wind close to the 
surface of water, broken up into ridges from three to 
eight feet in height, is considerably retarded and the 
stratum through which the low rig of the Yakaboo 
moved was not travelling at a rate of more than 
three-fourths the actual velocity of the free wind. 
Upon approaching land, where the seas began to 
diminish in size and before I had reached the influence 
of the down draft from the mountains, I could always 



DELIGHTS OF CHANNEL RUNNING 181 

feel a slight but definite increase in the force of the 
wind. 

Sailing as I did — seated only a few inches above 
the water — I had an excellent opportunity to observe 
the flying fish which rose almost continually from under 
the bow of the canoe. Although they were smaller 
than those I have seen in the channels off the California 
coast — they were seldom more than about nine inches 
long — their flight did not seem to be appreciably 
shorter. Their speed in the water immediately before 
they emerge must be terrific for they come out as 
though shot from a submarine catapult ; their gossamer 
wings, vibrating from the translated motion of the 
powerful tail, make the deception of flight most real. 

The flight is in effect the act of soaring with the 
body at an angle of from ten to fifteen degrees with the 
horizontal. The wings are close to the head and the 
lower part of the body often passes through the crest 
of a wave from time to time when the tail seems to give 
an impetus to the decreasing speed of the flight. This, 
however, may be an illusion, due to the dropping away 
of the wave, which might thus give the fish the appear- 
ance of rising up from the water. I have spent many 
hours watching these singular fish and, while there 
can be no doubt that they do not actually fly, it seems 
almost incredible that a fish can hurl itself from the 
water with sufficient force to rise to a height of twenty 
or more feet and soar for a distance of from three to 
four hundred feet — perhaps farther. 

The land ahead had shaken off its cloud blanket and 
was now rapidly defining itself, for this channel was 
shorter than the last one and my old enemy, the lee 



182 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

tide, had been scarcely perceptible. As I held the 
canoe up for "Diamond Rock," I again noticed the 
decided veering of the wind to the south'ard, and from 
time to time I had to ease off my sheets till the canoe 
was running well off in a beam sea that moderated as 
I approached land. The sky, which had been well 
clouded during most of the run, opened at a fortunate 
moment while I hove-to, stood up in the cockpit, and 
took a photograph of the famous Rock. There was 
no hope of landing in that run of sea and I had to 
be content with a hasty survey of the Rock as the 
canoe bobbed up and down, her nose into the wind. 

Were I writing this narrative true to events, I should 
have no time to describe the Rock and relate a bit of 
its history for I had scarcely time to stow my camera 
when a squall came chasing down on my heels. I 
hastily raised the mainsail and ran "brad aff," as the 
harpooner Bynoe would say, to get plenty of sea room. 
When the squall did catch us, we hove-to with the jib 
safely stowed and the mainsail securely lashed so that 
the wind could not get its fingers into it, and with 
the sturdy little mizzen dutifully holding the canoe into 
the wind. 

You shall have the story now while I am sitting in 
the cockpit — doing nothing but watch the Rock dis- 
appear in the mist to windward, while the Yakaboo 
is backing off gracefully at a rate of four miles an 
hour. 

Diamond Rock rises in the shape of a dome to a 
height of five hundred and seventy feet, a mile distant 
from the Martinique shore. In 1804, when the Eng- 
lish and French were making their last fight for the 



DELIGHTS OF CHANNEL RUNNING 183 

supremacy of the Caribbean, Admiral Hood laid the 
H. M. S. Centaur close under the lee of the Rock, put 
kedges out to sea, and ran lines to the shore. Fortu- 
nately, calm weather aided the Admiral in his opera- 
tions and he was able to hoist three long 24s and two 
1 8s to the top of the Rock where hasty fortifications 
were built. Here Lieutenant Maurice, with one 
hundred and twenty men, harassed the French fleet. 

The Rock was named H. M. S. Diamond Rock and 
for sixteen months this stationary man-of-war held out 
against the French, who had two ,74s, a corvette, a 
schooner, and eleven gunboats. Lack of food finally 
caused these gallant men to surrender and so great 
was the admiration of the French governor, the Mar- 
quise de Bouille, that he treated them as his guests at 
Fort Royal (Fort de France), till the proper 
exchanges could be made. By a strange coincidence, 
this same Maurice, who had become a captain, in 181 1 
captured the island of Anholt and successfully held it 
against the Danes. 

While I have been yarning to you about Diamond 
Rock, I have also partaken of my frugal sea-luncheon 
of coconut, pilot bread, and chocolate. I believe, just 
to make up for the nastiness of the weather, I raided 
my larder under the cockpit floor to the extent of a 
small can of potted meat, and I remember saving the 
empty tin till I was well in shore, for I did not care 
to excite the curiosity of a chance shark that might 
be passing by. 

The squall was a mixture of wind and spiteful rain 
and I thought of the Yakaboo as akin to the chimney 
sweep's donkey in "Water Babies." For an hour it 



184 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

blew hard and then let up as quickly as it had come, the 
sea subsiding as if by magic. I found that we were well 
off shore nearly due west of Cape Solomon, four miles 
from the point where the squall had picked me up. 
Shaping our course past the cape, we soon ran into the 
calm of the picturesque bay of Fort de France. 

Tucked well back from the sea, on the northern 
shore of the bay, lay the capital of the island. The 
afternoon was in its decline and the level rays of the 
sun striking into the low rain clouds that hung over the 
land threw a golden light on the town and hills, making 
it a yellow-skied picture by an old Dutch master. The 
effect of days gone by was heightened by the presence 
of a large square-rigger that lay in the anchorage with 
her sails brailed up to dry after the rain. No steamer 
was there to mar the illusion — the picture was not 
modern. 

As I rowed closer to the town I turned from time 
to time to see what changes were going on behind my 
back. On a bluff close aboard were the pretty homes 
of a villa quarter and over one the tricolour of France 
proclaimed the governor's house. Beyond was a row 
of warehouses fronting the sea and beyond these, as 
though behind a bulwark, rose the cathedral steeple. 
At the far end of the row of warehouses a long landing 
jetty ran out at right angles to the water front. Still 
farther to the eastward Fort St. Louis lay out into the 
harbour jealously guarding the carenage behind it. At 
the water's edge and not far from the shore end of the 
jetty was a building with the revenue flag over it and 
for this I shaped my course. 

As I neared the government landing the harbour- 



DELIGHTS OF CHANNEL RUNNING 185 

master's boat came out with its dusky crew of duanes 
(customs officers), wearing blue and white-banded 
jerseys and the French helmet of the tropics, with its 
brim drooped in back to protect the nape of the 
neck. I passed my papers to them and started to 
follow. The man in the stern, who now held my 
expensive bill of health, waved me back. 

"Jettez votre ancre!" 

I answered that I carried no anchor and they pulled 
away as from a pest. 

"Restez la!" he yelled, pointing indefinitely out into 
the middle of the bay. The crew landed their officer 
and then rowed out again, placing themselves between 
me and the shore. Half an hour passed; I could see 
the people of the town trickle down through the streets 
and gather along the water front. Then I began to 
notice that there was something wrong with the 
Yakaboo. She was tired and woman-like she gave way 
— not to tears, but the reverse. She leaked. She had 
had a hard day of it and wanted to sit down some- 
where; the bottom of the harbour being the nearest 
place, she started for that. A seam must have opened 
on the run across and I had to bail. 

But what on earth were those fellows doing with my 
bill of health and why on earth did they not allow 
me to come ashore ? Between spells of bailing I took up 
my oars and started to circumnavigate the duanes, but 
they were inshore of me and had the advantage. The 
sun sank lower and the crowd along shore became 
denser. Finally it dawned upon me. My expensive bill 
of health was dated the day before and the customs 
officers were trying to guess what I had been doing the 



186 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

day before and where I had been the previous night. 
Why they did not ask me directly I do not know, and 
what they actually thought and said to each other I 
never heard. That they took me for some sort of spy 
I am certain. 

Two weeks in quarantine began to loom up as a vivid 
possibility. I then remembered that "Monty" at Kings- 
town had given me a letter to his brother-in-law, a 
merchant by the name of Richaud, who lived in Fort 
de France. The next move was to get the letter to 
Richaud — he might be standing in that crowd on the 
jetty. So I took the letter out of my portfolio and 
put it in my pocket where it would be handy. Then 
I gave the Yakaboo a final sponge-out and started to 
pull at a smart pace away from the jetty. The crew in 
the harbour-master's boat swallowed the bait and 
quickly headed me off. 

In a flash I yanked the canoe about and rowed for 
the jetty, under full steam, at the same time yelling 
over my shoulder for Monsieur Richaud. Luck was 
with me. There was a movement in the crowd and a 
little man was pushed to the outer edge like the stone 
out of a prune. In a jiffy I was alongside and the 
letter was in his hands. The baffled duanes, who had 
turned by this time and were after me full tilt, nosed 
me away from the jetty, while I lay off, softly whistling 
"Yankee Doodle." This seemed to take with the 
crowd and they applauded. They were not in sym- 
pathy with duanes — few West Indians are, for they 
are all fond of smuggling. 

Whether it was Monty's letter backed by the pull 
of Monsieur Richaud, who seemed to be a man of 



DELIGHTS OF CHANNEL RUNNING 187 

some importance, or whether the officials decided to 
call it a day and to go home, I don't know, but I 
was at last beckoned to come ashore and just in time, 
for the Yakaboo sank with a gurgle of relief in the soft 
ooze on the beach. Before I knew what was going on, 
my whole outfit was bundled into the customs office to 
undergo the inspection of the officials. Even the canoe 
was bailed out and carried into the barracks, where she 
rested on the floor by the side of a gunrack filled with 
cumbersome St. Etienne rifles. There being no Bible 
handy I placed my hand on the next most holy thing, 
the bosom of my shirt, and swore that after this I 
would cruise in seas more homogeneous as to the na- 
tionality of their islands. While this silent ceremony 
was going on, the duanes looked at me in an awed way 
and one of them muttered "Fou" (crazy). He was 
probably right. 

But Monsieur Richaud was there and he introduced 
himself to me. He had been expecting me for some 
time, he said, and I explained as best I could — it was 
mental agony to try to recall from a musty memory 
words that I had not used for ten years or more — that 
I had spent some time with the Caribs in Saint Vincent 
and some time in Saint Lucia, since I had left "Monty." 
Monsieur was a little, jolly round-faced Frenchman 
with the prosperous air of a business man of some 
consequence. He was reputed to be one of the rich 
men of Fort de France. Would I bestow upon him 
the honour of dining with him at his house? I would 
bestow that honour. We said "au revoir" to the duanes 
and stepped out into the street. 



CHAPTER VIII 

MARTINIQUE — FORT DE FRANCE 

IT was dark and it was raining. My clothes were 
already wet and I sloshed along the narrow side- 
walks behind the little man like a dripping Newfound- 
land dog. His wife was ill, he said, but he wished to 
at least give me a dinner, a change of clothes and 
then find me a lodging place. I had become so used 
to wet clothing that I forgot to bring my dry duds. I 
could see little of the town as we walked along the 
dark streets, but the impression was that of a small city 
— larger than any I had yet seen in these islands. At 
our elbows was a monotonous unbroken wall of house 
fronts with closed doors and jalousied windows, which 
occasionally gave a faint gleam of light. Presently 
my friend stopped in front of one of the doors and 
pushed it in. We stepped into a sort of wide corridor 
at the farther end of which was another door through 
which we passed into my friend's house. The house in 
reality had two fronts, one on the street and this which 
faced on a sort of patio which separated it from the 
kitchen and servants' quarters. I made this hasty 
survey as the master gave some orders in patois to a 
large negress, whose attention was fixed on my be- 
draggled figure, which gave the impression of having 
but lately been fished out of the sea. 

188 



MARTINIQUE— FORT DE FRANCE 189 

First of all there was that enjoyable little liquid 
ceremony, "a votre sante," in which I rose in the esti- 
mation of mine host upon denying allegiance to "wisky- 
ansoda." This should be further proof that I was no 
English spy at least. Then I was led upstairs to the 
guest room which Monsieur was now occupying. 
Monsieur was short and beamy, while my build was of 
the reverse order, and the result of the change of 
dry clothes which I put on was ludicrous — but I was 
dry and comfortable, which was the main thing. It 
was pleasant to know that I could now sit down in a 
comfortable chair without leaving a lasting salt stain 
behind me, pink-dyed from the colour which was con- 
tinually running from the lining of my coat. What 
little dignity to which I may lay claim, took wing at the 
sight of a foot of brown paw and forearm dangling 
from the sleeve of the coat. In like manner the 
trousers withdrew to a discreet distance from my feet 
and hung in desperate puckers around my middle. 

Thus arrayed I was ushered into the presence of 
Madame Richaud, who lay recovering from an attack 
of fever in an immense four-poster. I paid my respects, 
assured her of the good health and well-being of her 
brother, and bowing with as much grace as possible, 
I followed my host to the drawing room. 

The door through which we had passed from the 
street to the house of Monsieur Richaud was what 
one might call a general utility door, used by the master 
of the house on all ordinary occasions and by the 
servants and tradespeople. This door, as I have said, 
opened into a sort of corridor or antechamber through 
which one had to pass before gaining access to the 



190 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

house proper. There was, however, another street 
door, which opened from the sidewalk directly into 
the parlour or living room, where I now sat with my 
friend. This gives an uncomfortable feeling of inti- 
macy with the street — in a step one moves from the 
living room to the sidewalk. It made me think of one 
of the smaller canals of Venice, where I had seen an 
urchin dive from a front window into the street. On 
either side of this door were two windows, lacking 
glass, with jalousies between the interstices of which 
I could now and then see the whites of peeking eyes. 

It is in the nature of these people to be fond of street 
life and during my stay in Fort de France I noticed that 
the little balconies, with long French windows opening 
upon them, which projected from the second stories, 
were occupied most of the time. The aspect of the 
glaring white and yellow houses, monotonous as the 
sheer walls of the Wallibu Dry River, could never be so 
pleasing as the green courtyards in the rear, viewed 
from large airy galleries. It was just the drift of 
the street, a casual word now and then and a few 
exchanges with neighbours similarly occupied. 

As we talked, the thought came to me that there 
was at least one advantage to this parlour street door 
— it was handy for funerals. Strange to say, I saw 
such a room put to just this use the very next day. 
The corpse was laid in state in the parlour and the 
doors were wide open so that any one, who wished, 
might enter in and look. There is, of course, some de- 
gree of common sense in this, for the rest of the house 
being practically cut off, the family need not be dis- 
turbed by the entrance of numerous friends, some of 



MARTINIQUE— FORT DE FRANCE 191 

whom may not alone be satisfied in viewing the corpse, 
but take a morbid delight in viewing the grief of 
others. 

But all this had little to do with the dinner which 
was announced from the door of the adjoining 
dining room. Monsieur Richaud's two children, a 
boy and a girl in that nondescript age which precedes 
the backfisch, now put in their appearance, the girl 
proudly taking the place of her mother at the head of 
the table. The dinner was excellent, but what I ate 
I did not remember even long enough to write in my 
note-book the next day, for while I was mechanically 
eating a soup that was delicious, I could give no specific 
thought to it, but must concentrate my entire attention 
to fetching up those few French words which were 
resting in the misty depths of my mind as in the muddy 
bottom of a well. Having "dove up" those words, I 
used them in a conversation which, while it was under- 
stood by Monsieur Richaud, afforded considerable 
amusement to the children. But the little Frenchman 
fared no better. Wishing to impress me with his 
familiarity with the English language he described the 
beauties of the northern coast of Martinique. He came 
to a fitting climax when he told of a river — "w'ich 
arrive at zee sea by casharettes." 

When the substantial part of the meal was over, a 
wash basin, soap and towel were passed around — 
satisfactory if not aesthetic — the three articles remind- 
ing me of their relations on the back stoop of a western 
farmhouse. After this, the fruit, which in this case was 
mango. I will not repeat the ponderous witticism 
regarding the mango and the bath-tub. I have often 



192 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

speculated on this joke, however, and have almost come 
to the conclusion that it was invented first and the fruit 
discovered afterward. I can imagine Captain Cook 
suddenly starting up and slapping his thigh. "What 
ho!" he shouts, "I have thought up a most excellent 
joke, but I must find a fruit to fit it." And so he 
sets forth, discovers the mango and circumnavigates 
the globe. 

However, we ate mangoes and our fingers became 
messy. As I was looking for some place to rest my 
hands where they would do the least damage to table 
linen, the negress, who had been serving us, brought in 
four plates with large finger bowls on them. There 
was tepid water in the bowls and by their sides were 
small beakers about the size of bird-baths. First we 
took up the beakers, filled them with water from the 
bowls and set them aside. Then we washed our finger 
tips in the bowls and finally dipped them in the clean 
water in the beakers and wiped our lips, an aesthetic 
proceeding which averaged the use of the wash basin 
and the soap. This rite concluded, the beaker was 
upset in the bowl — a signal that the dinner was over. 

Thus dried, fed and doubly cleansed, my sum of con- 
tent lacked only tobacco and a bed. They raise their 
own tobacco in Martinique — Tabac de Martinique — 
and that it is pure is where praise halts and turns her 
back. As for strength — I called it Tabac de Diable. I 
have shaved the festive plug and smoked the black 
twist that resembled a smoked herring from the time 
of the Salem witches, but these are as corn silk to 
the Tabac de Martinique. I had finished my supply 
of tobacco from home and now, forced to use the 



MARTINIQUE— FORT DE FRANCE 193 

weed of Martinique, I "learned to love it." There 
was nothing else to do. It reminded me of the tender- 
foot who leaned up against a white pine bar in the 
Far West and asked for a mint julep — "Well 
frapped." As the barkeeper produced a tumbler and 
a bottle he said, "You'll have three fingers of this bug 
juice and you'll love it." But the Tabac de Dia~ 
ble served me a good turn. Half a year later, in 
the cosy tap room of the Fitzwilliam Tavern, I incau- 
tiously left a partly smoked cigar within the reach of 
a practical joker, who, taking advantage of my pre- 
occupation in a book, watched the cigar go out and 
then with the aid of a pin inserted a piece of elastic 
band into the end of the cigar. I did not notice the 
anticipation of a bit of fun on the faces of the men 
who had come from an uninteresting game of bridge 
in another room. I relit the cigar and resumed the 
smoking of it, still deeply engrossed in my book. I 
remembered later that one by one the jokers had left 
the room with silent tread as if in the presence of the 
dead. For once I was alone in the room and I had the 
fireplace to myself. I finished the cigar and threw 
the stump into the fire. It was the Tabac de Diable 
that had inoculated me and for some time after I 
left Martinique I found that I could smoke almost 
anything that was at all porous and would burn if an 
indraft was applied to it. But I did not enjoy it that 
first time when Monsieur Richaud handed me a Marti- 
nique cigar. 

There now remained the last want — a bed — and 
my friend guessed this for I nearly fell asleep over 
his cigar. 



194 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

He led me out into the deserted streets lighted by 
a faint starlight and still shining from the rain which 
had let up. We turned into one of the main thorough- 
fares at the end of which blazed an electric light, 
yellow, like the moon rising through a mist. Here 
flourished the "Grand Hotel de l'Europe," a name, I 
believe, as legion as Smith. I fully expect, after cross- 
ing my last channel, the Styx, to find a sign on the other 
shore thus : — "Grand Hotel de l'Europe — Coolest Spot 
in Hades — Asbestos Linen — Sight Seeing Auto Hell- 
speed leaves at 10 A. M. — Choice New Consignment 
of Magnates seen at Hard Labour." 

My tired senses made scant note of the marble- 
floored room, the click of the billiard balls, and the 
questioning glances of the wasp-betrousered French 
officers, and I bade good night to my host, who had 
vouched for my harmlessness and left me in charge of 
the clerk. 

The kaleidoscope day came to an end as I crawled 
under the mosquito bar of an immense four-poster, in 
a room on the premier etage, and dove between the 
sheets with a grunt of satisfaction. 

At first I thought it was the love song of a mosquito, 
but as I began to awaken the sound resolved itself in- 
to the thin blare of a trumpet-call and I wondered 
where I was. My eyes, directed at the ceiling when I 
opened them, caught the rays of the morning sun, sifted 
through the jalousies and striking the gauze canopy 
over me in bands of moted light. The trumpet sound- 
ed again — this time almost under my window — and 
stretching out of bed like a snail from its shell, I 
peeked through the vanes of the jalousie and saw a com- 



MARTINIQUE— FORT DE FRANCE 195 

pany of soldiers returning from their morning drill. 

There was a delicious novelty about it all that made 
me feel absolutely carefree, and, as I thought of the 
Yakaboo and her precious outfit, I hoped that they, as 
well as I, had rested in the customs station with its anti- 
quated St. Utienne rifles for company. I hoped that 
there had been no quarrel between my Austrian gun 
and the Frenchmen and that my little British rifle had 
not flaunted the Union Jack in their faces. I was in 
that coma of carelessness when if an earthquake had 
come to crush out my life with the falling of the pond- 
erous walls about me, I would have reproved it with 
the dying words, u Oh, pshaw, why didn't you wait till 
I had finished my cruise?" This feeling is worth 
travelling to the ends of the earth to experience. 

A knock on the door brought forth a hasty "Entrez" 
as I slid back between the sheets. An aged negress 
brought in a small pot of coffee and a pitcher of hot 
milk which I found to my horror would have to stay 
my hunger until the hour of dejeuner at eleven. 

Later, another knock ushered in my clothes from 
Monsieur Richaud, already washed and dried. My 
precious shirt looked like a miserable piece of bunting 
after a rainy Fourth of July, faded and colour-run. I 
dressed and sallied forth to investigate the town. 

Fort de France was as new and strange to me as St. 
George's had been and far more interesting. An im- 
pending week of rainy weather decided for me and I 
made up my mind to spend that week here. Until I 
was ready to put to sea again and sail for Dominica I 
could not take my outfi; away from the customs office. 
Camping along shore, then, was out of the question. 



196 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

There was no alternative for me than to become for 
the time a part of the life of the town. Curiously 
enough, I find that one passes through various phases 
during the first few days in a new town or country. At 
first there is the novelty of the place which appeals to 
one. This is followed by a period of restlessness — the 
first blush of novelty has worn off and one comes al- 
most to the point of hating the place. It is like the 
European tourist who rushes upon a town, gorges him- 
self with what pictures and sights are easily accessible 
and then in a fit of surfeit hates the thought of the rich 
optical food before him. But then comes the third 
stage, which lasts indefinitely, when the spirit of the 
town makes itself felt and one begins to see through 
the thin veneer of first impressions and to make 
friends. Those first impressions — unless they are very 
striking — vanish little by little till one comes to regard 
the place more or less with the eyes of the native. 
After all, this whole process is both natural and human. 
It is during the last stage (granting always that the 
town or country has any interest for one at all) that 
the residence in all out of the way places is brought 
about of stray Englishmen, Scotchmen, Irishmen and 
in more recent years Americans. One commonly hears 
the admission, "I didn't care for the place at all at 
first but somehow I became fond of it and here I am — 
let's see, it's blank years now . . ." 

My first care was for my outfit which I was allowed 
to overhaul and put in order in the barracks room. 
My portfolio and camera I could take with me to the 
hotel, but the latter was of no use for my films be- 
came fogged from the excessive moisture of a rainy 



MARTINIQUE— FORT DE FRANCE 197 

week and when I did try to make an exposure it was 
only of some conventional subject. I could not wander 
at random from the confines of the town nor edge near 
the picturesque carenage in back of Fort St. Louis 
where there is an important coaling station and repair 
shop without being shadowed by some private ap- 
parently detailed for the purpose. While overhauling 
my outfit I could see that every bag had been care- 
fully searched — nothing, of course, was missing. 
Through some sort of feigned misunderstanding I was 
unable to get back my expensive bill of health — per- 
haps they thought I might alter the date and use it in 
Guadeloupe (above Dominica), the next French island. 
I had hoped to bluff the harbour-master at Dominica, 
but with my French bill of health gone, I could not do 
otherwise than obtain a new paper for Dominica — the 
officials saw to that — and it was just as well in the end 
for I met with the same officiousness that greeted Cap- 
tain Slocum when I arrived at Roseau. 

It had been raining and the deep, old-world gutters 
were full, miniature canals in which the broken shell 
of a coconut might be seen sailing down to the sea like 
the egg shell of Hans Christian Andersen. Apparent- 
ly most of the refuse of the town is carried off in these 
gutters. But the canal gutters serve another purpose — 
they wash the feet of the country people. One sees a 
woman whose muddy or dusty feet proclaim her to 
be from the country, walking into town with a mon- 
strous burden on her head. She will suddenly stop 
on the edge of the sidewalk and balance on one foot 
while she carefully lowers the other into the running 
water of the gutter. She may at the same time be pass- 



198 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

ing the time o' day with some approaching acquaintance 
half a block away. Their conversation seems to have 
a universal focus for any distance under a quarter of 
a mile — the intensity is the same for three feet or a 
block. 

Having washed her right foot with the nonchalance 
of a tightrope walker, she goes on her way till she 
makes such a turning as will bring her left foot along- 
side the gutter, and she proceeds as before. 

It was usually in the afternoon that I saw that most 
picturesque sang mele, the Creole of Martinique, unaf- 
fected by the so-called advance of civilisation, wearing 
the dress of watered silk and the heavy gold ornaments, 
with just that faint trace of interesting barbarity that 
goes with the generous features, the wide-spread eyes 
and the blue-blaclc hair. She is a reminder of Creole 
days of French Louisiana — the coarser progenitor of 
our so-called "creole." I could see that most of these 
women were married, by the sign of the madras qua- 
landi which is in reality a silk bandana tied on the head 
turban-wise, one corner knotted and stuck upright above 
the forehead like a feather. The unmarried women 
wear the madras in the usual manner, that is, without 
the knotted corner upright. 

That these women are beautiful there is no denying; 
the skin though it may be dark is very clear and the eyes 
give a frank open expression and by reason of their 
position seem to diminish what African coarseness may 
have been left in the nose. The nose may be flattish 
and a bit heavy but the broad, even high forehead, 
wide-spread eyes and perfect teeth counteract this ef- 
fect so that it is hardly noticeable. One finds these 



MARTINIQUE— FORT DE FRANCE 199 

people a delightful contrast to the rawboned Creole of 
the English colonies with her male-like figure and ec- 
centricities of hair, nose, lips, hands and feet. 

There was a refreshing spirit of enterprise — -we get 
the word from the French — and of varied interests that 
were a relief after having seen the "live and bear it" 
spirit of the English islands. The people of Marti- 
nique are industrious and they are happy — the one 
naturally follows the other. In the market I found near- 
ly all the vegetables of the temperate climate besides 
those of the tropics. They are now extensively grow- 
ing the vanilla bean and the Liberian coffee is excellent. 
The wines which they import from France are inex- 
pensive. In drinking the claret they dilute it with water 
which is the French custom and is as it should be. One 
might live very comfortably in Fort de France. There 
were electric lights and book stores where one could 
buy the current French magazines — illustrated, humor- 
ous and naughty. I bought several. There was just 
one step in their enterprise which I did not appreciate 
and that was the cultivating of home-grown tobacco — 
Tabac de Diable. 

My walks about town were for the most part sallies 
from the hotel during intermissions between showers — 
for it rained almost continually for the entire week. 
These sallies I alternated with periods of writing in 
the quiet little cabaret where an occasional acquaintance 
would sit down for a chat, my French taking courage 
from day to day like an incipient moustache. I usually 
occupied a marble-topped table under an open window 
by which bobbed the heads of passers-by. 

What front the Hotel de l'Europe boasts, faces to- 



200 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

ward the savanna in the middle of which stands the 
statue of the Empress Josephine. Here she stands, 
guarded by a high iron fence and surrounded by seven 
tall palms, their tops, towering to a lofty coronet, above 
her head, seemed to claim her after all as a child of 
the West Indies. She is looking pensively across the 
bay towards Trois Ilets where she may or may not have 
been born and where so many sentimental steamer-deck 
authorities on the West Indies may or may not have 
made pilgrimages to the parish church and perhaps to 
the ruins of the La Pagerie estate. That she spent a 
considerable part of her West Indian days in Saint 
Lucia there can be no doubt and I will say for the bene- 
fit of the steamer-deck authorities that there is a very 
strong likelihood that she was born in that island. Was 
it some ironical whim that tempted the sculptor to im- 
part a wistfulness in her face which seemed to carry her 
thoughts far beyond Trois llets and across the channel 
to the little plantation on the Morne Paix-Bouche and 
perhaps still farther, along that half mythical chemin 
de la Longue Chasse, which I discovered some time 
later on an old map of Saint Lucia, leading from the 
Dauphin quarter down to Soufriere? I have often 
wondered whether it was mere chance that impelled 
the sculptor to express that sign of parturient woman- 
hood for which Napoleon longed and the lack of which 
caused one of the most pathetic partings in history. 

One morning I was honoured by a call from the clerk 
of the hotel. A delegation from the Union Sportive 
Martiniquaise et Touring Club Antillais wished to 
wait upon me at four o'clock in the afternoon — would 
I receive them? At four, then, while I was sitting at 



MARTINIQUE— FORT DE FRANCE 201 

my table in the cabaret, the delegation of four came, 
headed by a fiery little man of dark hue — but a 
thorough Frenchman. His name was Waddy and I 
came to like him very much. The committee was very 
much embarrassed as a whole and individually like 
timid schoolgirls, but if they blushed it was like the 
desert violet — unseen. 

Would I do them the honour to be entertained for 
the rest of the afternoon? I said that I should be de- 
lighted — and felt like a cheap edition of Dr. Cook. 
Waddy explained to me that the club was very much 
interested in my cruise and that it was their intention to 
become familiar with the other islands of the Antilles. 
The members of the club were for the most part eager 
to visit the neighbouring islands but they were too timid 
to trust themselves to anything smaller than a steamer 
and while there was more or less frequent communica- 
tion by steamer with Europe there was no inter-island 
service except by sloop. My coming in a canoe had set 
them a wonderful example, he told me. 

We then walked to the jetty and were rowed out into 
the harbour to visit a West Indian schooner of the type 
that sailed from Martinique to Cayenne and upon 
which Waddy hoped the Club as a whole could some 
day be induced to cruise. She was an old Gloucester 
fisherman of about eighty tons and perfectly safe (I 
assured Waddy) for the use of the Touring Club An- 
tillais. Having surveyed the schooner we were rowed 
ashore where a carriage awaited us. We then drove 
by a circuitous route, carefully planned out beforehand 
to include the various sights of note in the town, to 



202 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

the rented house in the Rue Amiral de Gueydon where 
the Union Sportive Martiniqiiaise et Touring Club 
Antillais thrived. 

I was escorted to a room on the upper floor where 
the Union Sportive Martiniquaise et Touring Club was 
already gathered. To my intense embarrassment, the 
President of the Union Sportive Martiniquaise et 
Touring proceeded to read off a long speech from a 
paper in his hand. What he said I managed to under- 
stand for the most part but it concerns us little here. I 
replied to the members of the Union Sportive Martini- 
quaise to the best of my ability — in French — and what 
I said I know but they did not understand — neither 
does that concern us in this writing. After a pleasant 
stramash of verbal bouquets we were served with re- 
freshments which consisted of champagne and lady 
fingers. Champagne is not a rare beverage in the 
French islands, but I did not imagine that I should 
see it used with the familiarity with which the German 
treats his morning coffee; I mean the habit of dipping 
his toast in it. But dipping seemed the custom and 
into the champagne went the lady fingers of the Union 
Sportive, and mine. To me these people were warm- 
hearted and impulsive and as I got to know them, 
thoroughly likeable. 

According to my almanac, it was Easter Sunday and 
I almost felt ashamed of my morning cigarette as I 
left the hotel for a little stroll before I should sit 
down to my notes at the marble-topped table. But 
somehow or other I thought I must be mistaken in the 
day. While there were few people on the streets, 
to be sure, all the small shops were open. I walked 



MARTINIQUE— FORT DE FRANCE 203 

over to the covered market and to my surprise I found 
that open also but most of the business had already 
been transacted. But the large stores, emporiums and 
magasins as they were called, were closed. Then I 
passed a church and saw that it was packed. Another 
church was packed. The priests were doing a thriving 
business and I realised that perhaps after all it was 
Easter Sunday. I did not know that with the ending 
of Lent the people were having a last injection of the 
antitoxin of religion to inoculate themselves from the 
influence of Satan which was sure to follow on Monday. 
And it was on account of Monday that the small shops 
and the market were open, for everybody went to the 
country for the Easter holidays, that is everybody who 
was anybody, and they left the town to the proletariat. 
Those who were fortunate enough to be able to spend 
the week in the country must need get their last fresh 
supplies at the market and the little necessities such as 
sweets, tobacco and so on which were apt to be forgot- 
ten in the press of Saturday could yet be bought on 
the way home from church. 

The next morning I found that the market was not 
open and that all the shops were closed. So were the 
houses for that matter — everybody had made an early 
departure, the devil was having his due and the town 
was left to the rest. Various members of the Union 
Sportive played soccer football beneath the unheeding 
eyes of the Empress, in costumes that would have 
brought a smile to those marble lips, I believe, could 
she have looked down at them. With utter disregard 
for the likes or dislikes of one colour for another these 
members of the Union Sportive wore jerseys of banded 



204 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

red, green and purple and with an equal disregard for 
the fierce tropical heat, they raced over the savanna, 
most of them with knickerbockers but some with trous- 
ers, brailed up, if one might use the seagoing term. But 
all the trousers did not calmly submit to this seagoing 
treatment and generally slipped down as to the left 
leg. (After some consideration I have come to the 
conclusion that this phenomenon was on account of 
the left leg usually being smaller than the right; hence 
the left trouser leg would be more prone to come 
down.) One would see an energetic member of the 
Union being carried rapidly after the ball by a pair 
of legs, one decorously covered and the other exposed 
in all its masculine shamelessness of pink underwear, 
livid U Y" of garter, violent hose of Ethiopian choice 
and shoe of generous dimension with long French toe, 
cutting arcs in advance and bootstrap waving bravely 
behind. Even to stand perfectly still in the shade of 
a tree to watch this performance was heating and I 
moved on. 

The unearthly squeal of a flute brought me across 
the savanna to a shady grove where something was 
holding the attention of a large crowd. The flute, I 
found, was only one of four instruments held captive in 
a ring of prancing wooden horses that circled on an 
iron track like fish in a well. Each horse was mounted 
on an iron wheel with pedals and those who could af- 
ford the necessary five sous were allowed to circle 
for a time on this merry-go-round, in mad delight, the 
power coming from their own mahogany limbs which 
showed a like absence of stockings in both sexes. The 
riders wore shoes and the impression when they were 



MARTINIQUE— FORT DE FRANCE 205 

in motion was that they also wore stockings but when 
the ride came to an end the illusion vanished. There 
was no central pivot, merely this bracelet of horses fas- 
tened to each other and kept from cavorting away over 
the savanna by the U-shaped track wherein ran the 
wheels under their bellies. It was a piece of engineer- 
ing skill — the evident pride of the owner — and being 
machinery it must needs be oiled. For this purpose 
a boy wandered about in the confines of this equine 
circle with a long-spouted oilcan in his hand. The 
shrieking axles, while in motion, were guarded by the 
pumping legs of the riders and therefore could not be 
oiled; there remained only one other part for lubrica- 
tion and that was the track. So the boy very adroitly 
followed the wheel of some favourite steed with the 
nose of the oilcan. But, you ask, why not oil the axles 
at the end of the ride? Ah, but everybody is resting 
then, the horses and the orchestra; besides the axles 
are no longer squeaking. 

But let's have that delicious tid-bit — the orchestra. 
After the flute-player, I name them in the order of their 
effective strength; there was the man who played on 
the fiddle, which ages ago in these parts had slipped 
from its customary place under the chin to the hollow 
of the left shoulder. Then came the man who shook 
a gourd filled with small pebbles and the drummer 
who beat on a huge section of bamboo with two pieces 
of wood like chop sticks. These last two instruments 
were extremely effective, mainly because they were of 
African origin and played upon by African experts. 
They were artists of rhythm — a metronome could have 
done no better. In the hands of the drummer the bam- 



206 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

boo echoed the jungle from the light patter of rain 
drops on palm fronds to the oncoming thunder-roll of 
an impending storm. From the complacent beating of 
time this master lashed himself into a fury as the or- 
chestra periodically rose to a climax under the spur 
of the flute-player. But it was the gourd which held 
my eye longest. The hard surface of the gourd, a 
calabash about eighteen inches long, was banded with 
deep grooves across which the performer rubbed his 
thumbnail, producing a noise that reminded me of the 
dry grass of the prairies where the rattle-snake sounds 
his note of warning. For an instant the gourd would 
be poised above the head of the player to suddenly 
swoop, twirling and whistling, through a fathom of 
orbit to fetch up for a moment hugged in the curving 
form of its master where it gurgled and hissed under 
the tickle of a thumbnail of hideous power. 

In the evening, after dinner, I would walk out across 
the savanna to the still waters of the carenage — I was 
living in such a civilised state that canoe cruise, whal- 
ers, and Caribs seemed to have slipped back into the 
remote haze of memory — where an aged steamer, clip- 
per-stemmed and with a ship's counter, lay rusting at 
her mooring, her square ports and rail with ginger- 
bread white-painted life-net, a delight to one who revels 
in a past that is just near enough to be intimate. 
From the carenage my walk would continue along the 
quay, past the barracks of the naval station across the 
street from which a tribe of cosy little cabarets blinked 
cheerfully into the night through open doors and win- 
dows. 

Before long a quartet of French sailors, wearing 



MARTINIQUE— FORT DE FRANCE 207 

Peter Thompson caps with red or blue fuzzy tassels 
set atop like butter-balls, would come singing up the 
street and swing into one or another of the cabarets 
as though drawn by some invisible current, the song 
being continued to its end. 

If the singing were good — and it usually was — the 
little room would gradually fill, to the joy of the beam- 
ing landlord. The song finished, there would be re- 
freshments and then one of the audience would get 
up and sing some catchy little Parisian tune and if there 
were sufficient talent among those present, the enter- 
tainment might last long after the goodwife had with- 
drawn with her knitting and her children and until the 
landlord himself had closed the shutters outside and 
was making furtive attempts to put his place in order. 
With the stroke of ten, the guests would pour out and 
the door would close behind them to cut off its rec- 
tangular beam of light and leave the street in dark- 
ness. 

But this life in Fort de France was becoming too 
demoralising and I should soon be too lazy to cook 
another meal. The rainy week was over and I bade 
adieu to the statue of Josephine, extracted my outfit 
from the jealous care of the duanes, and sailed for 
the ruined city of St. Pierre. 



CHAPTER IX 

ST. PIERRE — PELEE 

DURING my week of idleness I had found time 
to coax the Yakaboo into an amiable mood of 
tightness — not by the aid of cabarets, however, but 
with white lead and varnish and paint for which she 
seemed to have an insatiable thirst. I was always glad 
to be sailing again and, to show the fickleheartedness 
of the sailor, I had no sooner rounded Negro Point in 
a stiff breeze than Fort de France — now out of sight — 
took her place among other memories I had left be- 
hind. 

The thread of my cruise was once more taken up 
and I was back into the canoe, enjoying the lee coast 
panorama with my folded chart in my lap for a guide 
book. It was early in the afternoon when I made out 
the little beacon on Sainte Marthe Point beyond which 
lay the roadstead of St. Pierre. A heavy, misty rain 
squall — a whisk of dirty lint — was rolling down the 
side of Pelee and I was wondering whether or no I 
should have to reef when something else drew my at- 
tention. Pulling out from a little fishing village beyond 
Carbet was a boatload of my old friends the duanes, 
a different lot, to be sure, but of the same species as 
those of Fort de France. They were evidently making 

208 



ST. PIERRE— PELEE 209 

desperate efforts to head me off and as long as they 
were inshore and to windward of me they had the ad- 
vantage. Little by little I trimmed my sheets till I 
was sailing close-hauled. 

There were eight or ten of the dusky fellows and 
they fetched their boat directly on my course and a hun- 
dred feet away. This was some more of their con- 
founded nonsense and I decided to give them the slip. 
I motioned to them to head into the wind so that I 
might run alongside, and while they were swinging the 
bow of their heavy boat, I slipped by their stern, so 
close that I could have touched their rudder, eased off 
my sheets, and the Yakaboo, spinning on her belly, 
showed them as elusive a stern as they had ever tried 
to follow. It took them a few seconds to realise that 
they had been fooled and they then proceeded to 
straighten out their boat in my wake and follow in hot 
pursuit. They hoisted their sail but it only hindered 
their rowing, for the heeling of the boat put the port 
bank out of work altogether while the men to wind- 
ward could scarcely reach the water with the blades of 
their oars. It would only be truthful to say that I 
laughed immoderately and applied my fingers to my 
nose in the same manner that midshipman Green salut- 
ed his superior officer. 

I was soon lost to their sight in the squall which had 
now spread over the roadstead. Rain and mist were 
ushered along by a stiff breeze. Under this friendly 
cover I held on for a bit and then came about on the 
inshore tack, thinking that the duanes would little sus- 
pect that I would come ashore under their very noses. 
It was not a bad guess for I afterwards learned that 



210 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

they had sent word to the next station to the north to 
watch for _me. 

Although I could not see more than a hundred feet 
ahead of me, I knew by the floating pumice that I must 
be well into the roadstead of St. Pierre. I snatched up 
a piece out of the sea and put it in my pocket as a sou- 
venir. Then we passed out of the mist as from a wall 
and I saw the ruins of St. Pierre before me, not a quar- 
ter of a mile away. A heavy mist on the morne above 
hung like a pall over the ruined city cutting it off from 
the country behind. 

It was truly a city of the dead, the oily lifeless waters 
of the bay lapping at its broken edges and the mist 
holding it as in a frame, no land, no sky — just the 
broken walls of houses. The mist above me began to 
thin out and the vapours about the ruins rolled away till 
only those on the morne remained and the sun shining 
through arched a rainbow over St. Pierre, one end 
planted by the tumbled statue of Our Lady and the 
other in the bed of the Roxelane. It was like a promise 
of a better life to come, to those who had perished. At 
first glance, the extent of the ruins did not seem great, 
but as I ran closer to shore I saw that for a mile and 
a half to the northward broken walls were covered by 
an inundation of green foliage which had been stead- 
ily advancing for nearly ten years. 

You may but vaguely recall the startling news that 
St. Pierre, a town hitherto but little known, on a West 
Indian island equally little known, was destroyed in 
one fiery gasp by a volcano which sprang to fame for 
having killed some twenty-five thousand people in the 
space of a minute or two. 



ST. PIERRE— PELEE 211 

For nearly a month the volcano had been grumbling, 
but who could suspect that from a crater nearly five 
miles away a destruction should come so swift that no 
one could escape to tell the tale? When I was in Fort 
de France, I found a copy of Les Colonaries, of 
Wednesday, May the 7th, 1902, the day before the 
explosion of Pelee. Under the heading, "Une Inter- 
view de M. Landes," it says: — "M. Landes, the dis- 
tinguished professor of the Lyceum, very willingly al- 
lowed us to interview him yesterday in regard to the 
volcanic eruption of Mount Pelee . . . Vesuvius, adds 
M. Landes, only had rare victims (this is a literal 
translation). Pompeii was evacuated in time and they 
have found but few bodies in the buried cities. Mount 
Pelee does not offer more danger to the inhabitants of 
St. Pierre than Vesuvius to those of Naples." 

The next morning, a few minutes before eight 
o'clock, that awful holocaust occurred, a bare descrip- 
tion of which we get from the survivors of the Rod- 
dam, the only vessel to escape of sixteen that were lying 
in the roadstead. Even the Roddam which had steam 
up and backed out, leaving her ground tackle behind, 
paid her toll and when she limped into Fort de France 
two hours later, a phantom ship, her decks were cov- 
ered with ashes still hot and her woodwork was still 
smoking from the fire. 

The story of the survivors was quickly told. The 
volcano had been rumbling, according to its custom of 
late, when about a quarter before eight there was an ex- 
plosion in which the whole top of the mountain seemed 
blown away. A thick black cloud rose up and from 
under it a sheet of flame rolled down the mountainside, 



212 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

across the city, and out over the roadstead. There had 
been barely time to give the signal to go astern and 
the few passengers of ready wit had hardly covered 
their heads with blankets when the ship was momen- 
tarily engulfed in flame. It was all over in a few sec- 
onds and those who had not been caught on deck or in 
their cabins with their ports open, came up to the blis- 
tering deck to behold the city which they had looked at 
carelessly enough a few minutes before, now a burning 
mass of ruins. 

Fortunately some one had been near the capstan and 
had tripped the pawls so that the chain had run out 
freely. Otherwise the Roddam would have met the 
fate of the cable ship Grappler and the Roraima and 
the sailing vessels that were unable to leave their moor- 
ings. After she had backed out, the Roddam steamed 
into the roadstead again and followed the shore to 
discover, if possible, some sign of life. But the heat 
from the smouldering city was so great that there could 
be no hope of finding a living being there. The 
steamer then turned southward to seek aid for her own 
dying victims. 

It was the suddenness of the catastrophe that made it 
the more awful. One man whom I met in Fort de 
France told me that he was talking at the telephone to 
a friend in St. Pierre when the conversation was in- 
terrupted by a shriek followed by a silence which 
brought no answer to his question. Rushing from his 
office, he found others who had had the same experi- 
ence. There was no word to be had from St. Pierre 
and the noise of the explosion which came from over 
the hills confirmed the fear that some terrible disaster 




;:: ' :;:;f: : 



* "*« **»»' '■ , 



■ 
t iPI** * " " 



ST. PIERRE— PELEE 213 

had befallen the sister city. It was not until the Rod- 
dam steamed into port that the people of Fort de 
France learned just what had happened. 

I have said that there was no survivor of St. Pierre 
to tell the tale thereof, but I may be in error. They 
tell a fanciful tale of a lone prisoner who was rescued 
from a cell, deep down in the ground, some days after 
the first explosion and before subsequent explosions 
destroyed even this retreat. His name is variously 
given as Auguste Ciparis and Joseph Surtout, and in a 
magazine story "full of human interest and passion," 
which could not have been written by the man himself, 
as Ludger Sylbaris. I was told in confidence, how- 
ever, by a reputable citizen of Fort de France, that the 
story was in all probability gotten up for the benefit 
of our yellow journals. 

Reviewing these things in my mind, I ran alongside 
the new jetty built since the eruption and hauled up 
the Yakaboo under the roofing that covers the shore 
end. There were about ten people there, nearly the 
entire population of what was once a city of forty 
thousand. 

These people, I found, lived in a few rooms recon- 
structed among the ruins, not with any hope of re- 
building but because at this point there is a natural 
outlet for the produce of the rich valleys behind St. 
Pierre which is sent in droghers to Fort de France. 
Among them I found a guide, a huge Martinique sac- 
catra, who knew Pelee well, he said, and we arranged 
to make the ascent in the morning. 

I have always been fond of moonlight walks in 
strange places and as I cooked my supper I said to my- 



214 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

self, "That is how I shall first see the dead city — by 
moonlight." As I struck in from the jetty I knew that 
no negro dared venture forth in such a place at night 
and that I was alone in a stillness made all the more 
desolate by the regular boom of the surf followed by 
the rumble as it rolled back over the massive pavement 
of the water front. There was no human sound and 
yet I felt the ghost of it as I heard the noise of the 
sea and knew that that same sound had mingled for 
over a century with the sounds of the cafes of the Rue 
Victor Hugo where I was now walking, and had been 
a roar of second nature to the ears of the thousands 
who had lived in the cubes of space before my eyes, 
now unconfined by the walls and roofs which had made 
them rooms. 

The moon rode high, giving a ghostly daylight by 
which I could distinguish the smallest objects with 
startling ease. The streets were nearly all of them 
cleared, the rubbish having been thrown back over the 
walls that stood only breast high. Here and there a 
doorway would be partly cleared so that I could step 
into the first floor of a house and then mounting the 
debris, travel like a nocturnal chamois from pile to 
pile, and from house to house. There was not the 
slightest sign of even a splinter of wood. A marble 
floor, a bit of coloured wall, the sign of a cafe painted 
over a doorway and the narrow sidewalks reminded 
me of Pompeii and had there been the familiar chariot 
ruts in the roadways the illusion would have been com- 
plete. There was a kinship between the two ; they had 
alike been wicked cities and it seemed that the wrath of 
God had descended upon them through the agency of 



ST. PIERRE— PELEE 215 

a natural phenomenon which had hung over them and 
to which they had paid no heed. 

I wondered how many of the dead were under these 
piles of debris. At one place I came to a spot where 
some native had been digging tiles from a fallen roof. 
There was a neat pile of whole tiles ready to be taken 
away while scattered about were the broken pieces 
which would be of no use. Where the spade had last 
struck protruded the cranium of one of the victims of 
that fateful May morning. 

I picked my way to the cimitiere where I loafed in 
the high noon of the moon which cast short shadows 
that hugged the bases of the tombs and gravestones. 
There was a feeling of comfort in that moonlight loaf 
in the cimitiere of St. Pierre and had I thought of it in 
time I might have brought my blankets and slept there. 
In comparison with the ruined town about it, there 
was the very opposite feeling to the spookiness which 
one is supposed to have in a graveyard. 

I sat on the steps of an imposing mausoleum and 
loaded my pipe with the Tabac de Martinique which I 
smoked in blissful revery. Here would I be disturbed 
by no mortal soul and as for the dead about and be- 
neath me were they not the legitimate inhabitants of 
this place? Those poor fellows over whom I had un- 
wittingly scrambled might have some reason to haunt 
the places of their demise, but these of the cimitiere 
had no call to play pranks on a visitor who chanced 
in of a moonlight night. I was not in a joking mood 
— neither did I feel serious. 

A sort of moon dreaminess came over me — I felt 
detached. I saw my form hunched against the face of 



216 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

the mausoleum with my long legs stretched out before 
it, but it -did not seem to be I. I was a sort of spirit 
floating in the air about and wondering what the real 
life of the dead city before me had been. I should 
have liked to have the company of the one whose 
bones rested (comfortably, I hoped) in the tomb be- 
hind me and to have questioned him about the St. 
Pierre that he had known. But I could only romance 
to myself. 

The mere bringing down of my pipe from my mouth 
so that my glance happened to fall on its faithful out- 
line with its modest silver band with my mark on it 
brought me to myself. The pipe seemed more a part 
of my person than my hands and knees and I knew 
that I was merely living through an incident of a canoe 
cruise. I sat there and smoked and idled till the moon 
began to shimmer the sea before me and with her light 
in my face I found my way back to the jetty and the 
Yakaboo. 

I was awakened at five by my guide who had with 
him a young boy. It was always a case of Greek 
against Greek with these fellows and I reiterated our 
contract of the night before. His first price was ex- 
orbitant and I had beaten him down as far as I dared 
— to fifteen francs. I find that it is a mistake to 
pull the native down too far for he is apt to feel that 
you have taken advantage of him and will become sul- 
len and grudging in his efforts. 

While I ate my scanty breakfast I impressed upon 
him the fact that I was paying for his services only 
and that if the boy wished to follow that was his 
affair. He prided himself on a very sparse knowledge 



ST. PIERRE— PELEE 217 

of English which he insisted upon using. When I 
had finished he turned to his boy and said, "E-eh? 
it est bon garcon!" To which I replied, "Mais ouil" 
which means a lot in Martinique. The boy came with 
us and proved to be a blessing later on. 

The moon had long since gone and we started along 
the canal-like Rue Victor Hugo with the pale dawn 
dimming the stars over us one by one. We crossed 
the Roxelane on the bridge, which is still intact, and 
then descended a flight of steps between broken walls 
to the beach and left the town behind us. Another 
mile brought us to the Seche (dry) Riviere just as the 
rose of dawn shot through the notches of the moun- 
tains to windward. When we came to the Blanche 
Riviere, along the bed of which we began the ascent 
of the volcano as in Saint Vincent, the sun stood up 
boldly from the mountain tops and gave promise of a 
terrific heat which I hoped would burn up the mist 
that had been hanging over the crater of Pelee ever 
since I had come to Martinique. I did not then know 
of the prophetic line which I discovered later under 
an old outline of Martinique from John Barbot's ac- 
count of the voyage of Columbus — "the Mount Pelee 
in a mist and always so." 

Were I to go into the detail of our ascent of Pelee 
you would find it a monotonous repetition for the most 
part of the Soufriere climb. Pelee was a higher moun- 
tain and the climb was harder. There was scarcely 
any vegetation even on the lower slopes, much to my 
relief, for Martinique is the home of the fer-de-lance. 
I had with me a little tube of white crystals which I 
could inject into my abdomen in case I were bitten by 



218 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

one of these fellows but I cannot say that even for 
the novelty of using it did I relish having my body a 
battle ground for the myriad agents of Pasteur against 
the poison of one of these vipers. 

The sun did not burn up the mist and at a height of 
3600 feet we entered the chilly fog, leaving our food 
and camera behind us. The remaining eight hundred 
feet made up the most arduous climbing I have ever 
experienced. We were now going up the steep sides 
of the crater cone made of volcanic dust, slippery from 
a constant contact with mist and covered with a hair- 
like moss, like the slime that grows on rocks in the sea 
near human habitations. I took to falling down so 
many times that it finally dawned upon me that I would 
do much better if I crawled and in this way I finished 
the last four hundred feet. At times I dug my toes 
well into the side of the crater and rested half-lying, 
half-standing, my body at an angle of forty-five de- 
grees. 

Although I could scarcely see three yards ahead of 
me there was no need of the guides to show the way — 
there was only one way and that was up. The negroes 
were a little ahead of me and I remember admiring 
the work of their great toes which they stuck into the 
side of the mountain as a wireman jabs his spikes into 
a telegraph pole. When I had entered the cloud cap 
I had come out of the hot sun dripping with perspira- 
tion and I put on my leather jacket to prevent the 
direct contact of the chilly mist upon my body. I was 
chilled to the bone and could not have been wetter. 
I could feel the sweat of my exertions streaming down 
under my shirt and could see the moisture of the con- 



ST. PIERRE— PELEE 219 

densed mist trickling down the outside of my coat. No 
film would have lived through this. 

As an intermittent accompaniment to the grunts of 
the negroes I could hear the chatter of their teeth. 
Suddenly they gave a shout and looking upward I 
saw the edge of the rim a body length away. Another 
effort and I was lying beside them, the three of us 
panting like dogs, our heads hanging over the sul- 
phurous pit. What was below was unknown to us — 
we could scarcely see ten feet down the inside of the 
crater, while around us swirled a chilly mist freezing 
the very strength out of us. A few minutes were 
enough and we slid down the side of the crater again 
to sunlight and food. 

Looking up at Pelee from the streets of St. Pierre, 
one felt that surely no destruction from a crater so far 
off could reach the city before safety might be sought; 
but as I sat upon the very slope of the crater I could 
easily imagine a burst of flaming gas that could roll 
down that mountainside and engulf the city below it in 
a minute or two of time. 

It was half way down the mountain that the boy 
proved a blessing for we lost our way and suddenly 
found ourselves at the end of a butte whose precipitous 
sides fell a sheer five hundred feet in all directions 
around us, except that by which we had come. For an 
hour we retraced our steps and cruised back and forth 
till at last the boy discovered a crevasse into which 
we lowered ourselves by means of the strong lianes 
which hung down the sides till we reached the bottom 
where we found a cool stream trickling through giant 
ferns. We lapped the delicious water like thirsty 



220 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

dogs. Again we were in the dry river bottom of the 
Blanche and we took to the beach for St. Pierre in the 
heat of the middle afternoon. 

The climb had been a disappointment for I had par- 
ticularly wished to find if there were any trace left of 
the immense monolith which had been forced above the 
edge of the crater at the time of the eruption and had 
subsided again. I also wanted a photograph of the 
crater which is less than a fourth the size of the Souf- 
riere of Saint Vincent. But, as you may know, this 
is distinctly a part of the game and there is no need 
of casting glooms here and there over a cruise for the 
want of a picture or two. 

So I forgot the photograph which I did not get of 
Pelee's crater and thought of the refreshing glass or 
two of that most excellent febrifuge "Quinquina des 
Princes" which I might find at the little inn that had 
been erected over the ashes of its former self. This 
inn had been one of the meaner hotels of St. Pierre, 
close to the water front and facing the Rue Victor 
Hugo. When Pelee began to rumble, the proprietor 
had sent his wife and son to a place of safety, but he 
himself had remained, not that he did not fear the 
volcano but to guard his little all from the marauding 
that was sure to follow a more or less complete evacu- 
ation of the city. It had cost him his life and now 
the widow and her son were eking out an existence by 
supplying the wants of the few who chance to pass that 
way. 

It was three o'clock in the afternoon when we 
reached the inn and it was still very hot. I stood for 
a few minutes, quite still, in the sun in order to cool 



ST. PIERRE— PELEE 221 

off slowly and to dry my skin before I entered the grate- 
ful shade of the roof that partly overhung the road. 
In doing this I won great respect from my saccatra 
guide and the boy, both of whom did likewise, for they 
feared the effect of the exertions of the climb and the 
subsequent walk along the hot beach quite as much as 
I did. 

It was here that I received my most forlorn impres- 
sion of St. Pierre. The widow's son, a likeable young 
fellow of about eighteen, had stepped out into the 
road to talk to me when a pathetic form in a colourless 
wrapper slunk from out the shadows of the walls and 
spoke to him. It was evidently me about whom she 
was curious, and he answered her questions in the 
patois which he knew I could not understand. 

She was a woman of perhaps forty, partly demented 
by the loss of her entire family and all her friends in 
the terrible calamity of nine years before. Her wan- 
dering eye bore the most hopeless expression I have 
ever seen and her grey, almost white hair, hung, un- 
combed for many a day, over her shoulders. Her feet 
were bare, she wore no hat and for all that I could see 
the faded wrapper was her only covering. Her ques- 
tions answered, she stood regarding me silently for a 
moment and then passing one hand over the other 
palms upward so that the fingers slipped over each 
other, she said, "// est fou — fou." 

That night I read myself to sleep in the cockpit of 
the Yakaboo with my candle lamp hung over my head 
from the stumpy mizzen mast. But between the pages 
of the wanderings of Ulysses, which Whitfield Smith 
had given me at Carriacou, slunk the figure of the 



222 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

woman who had called me "crazy" — utterly forlorn. 

Remove the whole of Mount Pelee and you take 
away the northern end of Martinique whose shores 
from St. Pierre to the Lorain River describe an arc of 
225 ° with the crater of the volcano for its center. 
When I left St. Pierre the next morning, then, I was 
in reality encircling the base of Pelee along 135 of 
that arc to Grande Riviere. There lived Monsieur 
Waddy of the Union Sportive who had made me 
promise that I would spend at least one night with him 
before I sailed for the next island. 

"You can make the depart for Dominique from 
Grande Riviere," he told me. "I will keep a lookout 
for you." This would be entirely unnecessary, I told 
him. Could I get the canoe ashore all right? "Oh, 
yes! I shall watch for you." There was some reser- 
vation in that "Oh, yes!" For his own good reasons 
he did not tell me of the terrific surf that boomed con- 
tinually on the beach where he lived — but it did not 
matter after all. 

The trade in the guise of a land breeze lifted us out 
of the roadstead of St. Pierre and we soon doubled 
Point La Mare. A mile or so up the coast the white 
walls of Precheur gleamed in the morning sunlight. 
One cannot read far concerning these islands without 
making the friendship of Pere Labat through the pages 
of his five little rusty old volumes. They are written 
in the French of his day — not at all difficult to under- 
stand — and the reading of them compelled me to form 
a personal regard for this Jesuit priest from his 
straightforward manner of writing. 

We were now in the country of Pere Labat and Pre- 



ST. PIERRE— PELEE 

cheur, before us, was where in 1693 ne nac ^ spent the 
first few months of his twelve years in the West Indies. 
Du Parquet, who owned Martinique at that time, gave 
this parish to the Jesuit order of "Le Precheur" in 
1654 and it was only natural that here Labat should 
become acquainted with the manners and customs of 
the people before he took up his duties in the parish 
of Macouba near Grande Riviere. But here the wind 
failed me, it was Pere Labat having his little joke, 
doubtless, and the lack of it nearly got me into trouble. 
I had been rowing along the shore for some time, fol- 
lowing with my eyes the beach road that the priest had 
known so well, and had come to Pearl Rock. There 
is a channel between the rock and the shore and as I 
looked at my chart, folded with that particular part 
of the island faced upwards, it seemed to me that the 
name was somehow familiar. 

Then I began to recollect some tale about an Ameri- 
can privateer that had dodged an English frigate by 
slipping through this very place at night. I was try- 
ing to recall the details when a premonition made me 
look around. There, silently waiting for me not four 
strokes away, was a boatload of those accursed 
duanes! They had been watching for me since, two 
days before, they had received a message from their 
confreres down the coast that I had either been lost 
in the squall off St. Pierre or was hiding somewhere 
along the north coast. With an instinct that needed 
no telegram from my brain, my right arm dug its oar 
deep into the water while my left swung the canoe 
around like a skater who turns on one foot while the 



ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

other indolently floats over its mate. The left oar 
seemed to complete the simile. 

While the duanes were recovering from their sur- 
prise at this unexpected movement of the canoe which 
had been on the point of boarding them, I pulled with 
the desperation of a fly trying to crawl off the sticky 
field of a piece of tanglefoot — but with considerably 
more success as to speed. With a few yanks — one 
could not call them strokes — I was clear of the duanes 
and I knew they could not catch me. But they tried 
hard while I innocently asked if they wished to com- 
municate with me. "Diable/" they wanted to see my 
papers and passport. I did not feel inclined to stop 
just then, I told them — they were easing up now — and 
if they wished to see my papers they could do so when 
I landed at Grande Riviere. And so the second batch 
of duanes was left in the lurch. 

Along the four miles of coast from Pearl Rock to 
Grande Riviere there is no road, and the slopes of 
Pelee, which break down at the sea, forming some of 
the most wonderful cliffs and gorges I have ever seen, 
are as wild as the day when Columbus first saw the 
island. But if you would care to see these cliffs you 
must go by water as I did, for were you to penetrate 
the thickets of the mountain slopes you would not go 
far — for this is the haunt of the fer-de-lance. In start- 
ing the cultivation of a small patch of vanilla, which 
grows in a nearly wild state, Waddy killed a hundred 
of these vipers in the space of three months. But I 
gave no thought to the snakes — it was the cliffs that 
held me. 

Imagine a perpendicular wall ranging from two to 



ST. PIERRE— PELEE 225 

four hundred feet in height and covered with a hang- 
ing of vegetation seemingly suspended from the very 
top. No bare face of rock or soil, just the deep green 
that seemed to pour from the mountain slope down the 
face of the cliff and to the bright yellow sandy beaches 
stretching between the promontories. A surf, that- 
made my hands tingle, pounded inshore and I watched 
with fascinated gaze the wicked curl of the blue cylinder 
as it stood for an instant and then tumbled and crashed 
up the beach. I was wondering how Waddy would 
get me through this when the measured shots from a 
single-loading carbine made themselves heard above 
the noise of the surf. 

I turned the Yakaboo around that I might view the 
shore more easily and found that we were lying off 
a long beach terminating in Grande Riviere Point a 
few hundred yards beyond. A group of huts flocked 
together under the headland as if seeking shelter from 
the trades that were wont to blow over the high bluff 
above them. Where the beach rounded the point, the 
usual fringe of coco palms in dispirited angles stood 
out in bold relief. A line of dugouts drawn far up 
the beach vouched for Waddy's statement that here 
the natives caught the a thon." 

Off the point a series of reefs broke the heavy swell 
into a fringe of white smother — inside was my salva- 
tion of deep blue quiet water. The blue of the sea 
and sky, the white of the clouds and broken water, the 
yellow of the deeper shoals and the beaches, the dark 
green background of vegetation lightened by the 
touches of red roofs and painted canoes, the sketchy 



226 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

outline of the point and the palms made a picture, 
ideally typical, of this north coast village. 

A crowd of natives were dragging down a huge dug- 
out which proved to be fully thirty feet long and made 
of a single log while a detached unit, which I recognised 
as the figure of Waddy, stood firing his carbine into 
the air. It was a signal, he explained later, to attract 
my attention and to call the people together to launch 
the dugout. When Waddy saw that I had turned the 
canoe he waved his large black felt hat frantically at 
the dugout and I waved back in understanding and 
waited. 

But even under the protection of the barrier reef, 
there was a goodly surf running on the beach — too 
much for the Yakaboo — and I saw them wait, like all 
good surf men, till there was a proper lull, and then 
rush the dugout into the sea. For a moment she hung, 
then, as the centipede paddles caught the water, she 
shot ahead, her bow cutting into the menacing top of 
a comber mounting up to break. Up she went, half 
her length out of the water, her bow pointing skyward, 
and then down again as the sea broke under her, her 
bow men swung through a dizzy arc. If that were 
close work in a lull what were the large seas like? 

In a few minutes they were alongside. Clearing 
away the thwarts half the natives — she was full of 
them — jumped overboard and swam ashore. I then 
unstepped my rig and passed over my outfit bags with 
which we made a soft bed in the dugout for the Yaka- 
boo. I followed the outfit and we slid the empty canoe 
hull athwartships over the gunwale and then with a 
man under her belly like an Atlas, we swung her fore 



* 



ST. PIERRE— PELEE 227 

and aft, lifted her up while the man crawled out and 
then set her down gently in her nest. She looked like 
some strange sea-fowl making a ludicrous effort to 
hatch out an assortment of yellow eggs of various 
sizes and shapes. 

In this way Waddy had solved the surf problem for 
me. If the Carib Indians were good boatmen, the 
Martinique tuna fishermen were better. First we pad- 
dled up shore to regain our driftage, and then in 
around the edge of the reef to a deep channel that ran 
close to the beach. We followed the channel for a 
hundred yards where we turned, hung for an instant — 
the seas were breaking just ahead and astern of us — 
and at a signal from the people on shore, paddled like 
mad. With the roar of the surf under us we passed 
from the salt sea into the sea of village people who 
dragged the dugout and all high and dry on the beach. 
It had been another strange ride for the Yakaboo and 
she looked self-satisfied, as if she enjoyed it. 

As I jumped to the sands, Waddy received me, 
glowing and triumphant. It seemed that I was a hero ! 
and great was his honour to be my host. 

The Yakaboo and her yellow bags were carried to a 
sort of public shed where the crowd assembled with 
an air of expectancy which explained itself when I 
was ceremoniously presented to His Honour the 
Mayor. This dignitary then made a speech in which 
the liberty of the town was given me, to which I re- 
plied as best I could. Thus was I received into the 
bosom of the little village of Grande Riviere. Then 
up the hot. dusty road to Waddy's large rambling house 



228 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

on the headland where a second reception was held — 
only the elect being present. 

It was at this point, however, that the liberty of the 
town which had been presented me "paragorically 
speaking," as "Judge" Warner used to say, was about 
to be taken away from me. The street door was sud- 
denly burst open and a band of hot dusty duanes came 
in to arrest the man who had defied their compatriots 
near Pearl Rock. But the Mayor, the priest, the pre- 
fect of police, and my fiery little host — an Achilles as 
to body if we may believe that the ancient Greeks were 
not large men — stayed the anger of the duanes while 
Waddy's servant — oh, the guile of these Frenchmen! 
— poured out a fresh bottle of wine which effectually 
extinguished the flame of their ire. My papers were 
duly examined and all was well again. When the 
duanes were at last on their way I told my protectors 
how I had dodged them at St. Pierre and Pearl Rock. 
This called for another bottle. 

But I cannot keep you standing here in Waddy's 
house, for the little man was as eager to show me the 
sights of Grande Riviere as any schoolboy who races 
ahead of his chum, of a Saturday morning, two steps 
at a time, to the attic where some new "invention" is 
about to be born. He waved the select committee of 
the bottle very politely out of the front door and then 
grabbing his big hat he raced me up the steep road 
to the top of the cliff above the town. Time was pre- 
cious. One could walk fast and talk at the same time. 

In the first hundred yards I learned that he was 
born in Martinique, educated in Paris, and had special- 
ised in botany and medicine. Cut off from the world 



ST. PIERRE— PELEE 229 

as he had been for the better part of his life (I had 
all this as we cleared the houses of the village) he had 
developed the resourcefulness of a Robinson Crusoe. 
He would have made an excellent Yankee. He could 
make shoes, was a carpenter, something of a chemist, 
a philosopher, an expert on tuna fishing, and a student 
of literature. It seemed that his divertissement was 
the growing of vanilla and the raising of a large 
family. 

He did not give out all this in a boastful way but 
merely tore through the facts as if he were working 
against time, so that we might understand each other 
the sooner and interchange as much of our personal- 
ity as possible in the few hours I was to stay at Grande 
Riviere. By the time we reached the top of the cliff 
I had the man pat while he had me out of breath. 
He was the third I had met who would make life worth 
while in these parts. 

And here, looking up the valley of the Grande 
Riviere, I saw one of the most beautiful bits of scenery 
in all the islands. The river came down from Pelee 
through a canon of green vegetation. On the opposite 
wall from where we stood, a road zigzagged upwards 
from the valley to disappear through a hole near the 
top of the cliff. Some day I shall travel that road and 
go through the hole in the wall to visit Macouba be- 
yond where Pere Labat spent his first years in the par- 
ish and where he practised those sly little economies of 
which he was so proud. He tells of how he brought 
home some little chicks, ponies d'Inde he calls them, 
and gave them out among his parishioners to be 
brought up, in material payment for the spiritual com- 



230 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

fort and the blessings which he, Pere Labat, afforded 
them. And how his children came back to him, grown 
up and ready for his table. His sexton lived close 
to the sea by the river (probably just such a stream 
as this with a ford and the houses of the town close 
to its banks) and this gave him the idea of buying ducks 
and drakes and going in with the sexton on a half and 
half basis. When the ducks matured, Pere Labat, 
who was steadily increasing his worldly assets, bought 
out the sexton at a low price. The sexton probably 
shared in the eating of the ducks for he was a singer 
and a good fellow, a Parisian, the son of an attorney 
named Rollet, made famous by Boileau in a shady 
passage of his "Satires." The son had changed his 
name to Rallet, fled the scenes of his father's disgrace 
and came to Martinique where he found peace and 
happiness in the parish of Pere Labat. Although the 
priest and poor Rallet have been a-mouldering these 
two hundred years I could not help hoping that it 
was a good cook who prepared their ducks and chick- 
ens. 

The shadow of evening had already crossed the 
valley bottom and it followed a lone figure that was 
slowly toiling up the road toward the hole in the wall. 
We scrambled down again through the village, where 
the odour of French cooking was on the evening air, 
past a little wayside shrine to the beach where I had 
landed. We had left the evening behind us for a 
time and were back in the last hour of afternoon. It 
was hot even now, although the dangerous heat of the 
day was over. I had caught my breath on our com- 
ing down and my long legs made good progress over 



ST. PIERRE— PELEE 231 

the soft sands — there is a knack in beach walking, the 
leg swings forward with a slight spring-halt motion, 
the knee is never straightened and the foot is used flat 
so that it will sink as little as possible in the sand. I 
had my little Achilles in the toils and I talked while he 
fought for breath. 

For a quarter of a mile we trudged the sands till 
the green wall closed in on us and met the sea. A 
little spring trickled down through an opening in the 
rocks and we drank its cool water from cups which 
Waddy made of leaves. It was here that my friend 
was wont to come when he wished to be alone and he 
led me up through a crevasse to the top of a gigantic 
rock that overhung the surf some thirty feet. He 
could have paid me no greater compliment than to take 
me to this place, sacred to his own moody thoughts, 
where, like a sick animal or an Indian with a "bad 
heart" he could fight his troubles alone. Below us the 
surf curled over in a mighty roll that burst on the beach 
with a deafening roar, sending up a fine mist of salty 
vapour like the smoke of an explosion. This was Pere 
Labat's country and as I watched the regular on- 
slaught of several large seas I thought of a paragraph 
he wrote some two hundred years ago. "The sea 
always forms seven large billows, waves or surges, 
whichever you would call them, that break on the shore 
with an astonishing violence and which can be heard 
along the windward side where the coast is usually very 
high and where the wind blows continually on the sea. 
The three last of these seven waves are the largest. 
When they have subsided after breaking on shore there 
is a little calm which is called Emblie and which lasts 



232 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

about the time it takes to say an Ave Maria, after 
which the waves begin again, their size and force aug- 
menting always till the seventh has broken on the 
shore." 

We watched the sun go down and then silently 
crawled down to the beach. It was Waddy's wish that 
we should walk back in the darkness. The advance 
of night seemed to drive the last fitful twilight before it 
— one can see the light fade away from a printed page 
— and the stars came out. The moon would not rise 
yet awhile. "Look!" said Waddy, and he turned me 
toward the dark cliffs above us. Hanging over us 
was a deep velvet darkness that I could almost reach 
out and feel, and against this like the jewels of a 
scarf, was the glimmer of thousands of fire-flies — mov- 
ing, blinking spots of light as large and luminous as 
Jupiter on the clearest night. They lived in the foliage 
of the cliff and it was Waddy's delight to come here of 
a night and watch them. "Chaque bete a feu claire pou 
name yo!" he said. (Each firefly lights for his soul.) 

Dinner was waiting for us and with it the proud 
maman and two of the children. Some were away at 
school and some were too young to come to the table 
(at least when there were visitors) and we did justice 
to that of which she was proud, the food. That night 
we discussed till late the various means by which the 
"Touring Club" could see more of the Antilles as I 
was seeing them, but Nature finally had her way and I 
fell asleep talking — so Waddy said. 



CHAPTER X 

A LAND CRUISE — THE CALM OF GUADELOUPE 

I AWOKE in the morning to find that I had care- 
lessly slipped into the second day of a windy 
quarter. There was no doubt about it; the trade was 
blowing strong at six o'clock. I was impatient to be 
off shore before the surf would be running too high 
even for the thirty-foot dugout. After gulping down 
a hasty breakfast and bidding profuse adieux to Ma- 
dame Waddy, I reached the beach with my friend just 
in time to see one of the fishing boats capsize and to 
watch the natives chase down the shore to pick up her 
floating gear. 

It took nearly the whole male population of the 
village to turn the dugout and get her bow down to the 
surf. With a shout and a laugh the people carried 
the Yakaboo and placed her lightly in her nest. Ten 
of the strongest paddlers were selected and they took 
their places in the dugout forward and aft of the canoe 
while I, like the Queen of the Carnival, sat perched 
high above the rest, in the cockpit. For nearly half an 
hour — by my watch — we sat and waited. There were 
thirty men, on the sands, along each gunwale, ready for 
the word from Waddy. There was little talking; we 
all watched the seas that seemed to come in, one after 
another, with vindictive force. 

233 



234 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

I was beginning to swear that I was too late when a 
"soft one" rolled in and we shot from the heave of a 
hundred and twenty arms plunging our bow into the 
first sea. Her heel was still on the sand and I feared 
she wouldn't come up for we shipped two barrels of 
brine as easily as the Yakaboo takes a teacupful. But 
with the first stroke she was free and with the second 
she cleared the next sea which broke under her stern. 
We were in the roar of the reef and if Waddy yelled 
good-bye it had been carried down the beach like the 
gear of the fishing boat. But he waved his hat like a 
madman and followed us along shore as we ran down 
the channel and turned out to sea. 

Once clear of all dangers, eight of the men fell to 
bailing while the two bow men and the steersman kept 
her head to it. Then we swung the Yakaboo athwart- 
ships while I loaded and rigged her. We slid her over- 
board and I jumped in. The men held her alongside 
where she tugged like an impatient puppy while I low- 
ered the centerboard. "Let 'er go!" I yelled — an ex- 
pression that seems to be understood in all languages — 
and I ran up the mizzen, sheeting it not quite home. 
Then the jib. I shall never forget the" sensation as I 
hauled in on that jib — it seems out of proportion to 
use the word "haul" for a line scarcely an eighth of an 
inch in diameter fastened to a sail hardly a yard in 
area. The wind was strong and the seas were lively. 

When that sheeted jib swung the canoe around she 
did not have time to gather speed, she simply jumped 
to it. I made fast the jib sheet and prepared to steer 
by the mizzen when I discovered that the canoe was 
sailing herself. I looked back toward shore and waved 



LAND CRUISE— CALM OF GUADELOUPE 235 

both arms. Waddy was a crazy figure on the beach. 
The day was delirious. A tuna dugout that had been 
lying into the wind fell away as I started and raced 
ahead of me, reefed down, her lee rail in the boil and 
her wild crew to windward. My mainsail was already 
reefed and I let the canoe have it. By the high-tuned 
hum of her board I knew that the Yakaboo was travel- 
ling and the crew of the tuna canoe knew it, too, for 
we passed them and were off on our wild ride to 
Dominica. 

My channel runs were improving. The sea, the 
sky, and the clouds were all the same as on the other 
runs, but the wind was half a gale. What occupied 
my mind above all, however, was the discovery that the 
canoe would sail herself under jib and mizzen. I had 
thought that no boat with so much curve to her bottom 
could possibly do such a thing — it is not done on paper. 
The fact remained, however, that the two small sails 
low down and far apart kept the canoe on her course 
as well as I could when handling the mainsheet. 

I checked this observation by watching my compass 
which has a two-inch card floating in liquid and is ex- 
tremely steady. I also learned that I did not have to 
waste time heading up for the breaking seas, except 
the very large ones, of course. Sometimes I could 
roll them under — at other times I let them come right 
aboard and then I was up to my shoulders in foam. 
The canoe was tighter than she had ever been and it 
was only the cockpit that gave trouble. When she 
began to stagger from weight of water, I would let go 
the main halyard and she would continue on her course 
while I bailed. In all the two thousand miles of cruis- 



236 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

ing I had hitherto done, I learned more in this twenty- 
five mile channel than all the rest put together. Some 
day — I promised myself — I would build a hull abso- 
lutely tight and so strong and of such a form that I 
could force her through what seas she could not easily 
ride under. Also, what a foolish notion I had clung 
to in setting my sails only a few inches above deck; 
they should be high up so that a foot of water could 
pass over the deck and not get into the cloth. In this 
run, if the Yakaboo had been absolutely tight and her 
sails raised and if I had carried a small deck seat to 
windward, I could have carried full sail and she would 
have ridden to Dominica on a cloud of brine-smelling 
steam. As it was, she was travelling much faster than 
at any time before and I did not know that the most 
glorious channel run was yet to come. 

I laid my course for Cape Cachacrou (Scott's 
Head), a peculiar hook that runs out to westward of 
the south end of Dominica. For the first two hours 
I could not see the Head, then it popped up like an 
island and began slowly to connect itself with the larger 
land. The going was excellent and in short time the 
head was right over our bow, with Dominica rising up 
four thousand feet to weather. We were not more 
than half a mile off shore when I took out my watch. 
I figured out later that our rate had been six miles an 
hour including slowing up to bail and occasionally com- 
ing to a dead stop when riding out a big sea bow on. 
I could ask no better of a small light craft sailing six 
points off the wind, logy a part of the time and work- 
ing in seas that were almost continually breaking. 

Fate was indulgent, for she waited till I had stowed 



LAND CRUISE— CALM OF GUADELOUPE 237 

my watch in its berth to starboard. Then she sent a 
sea of extra size — it seemed to come right up from 
below and mouth the Yakaboo like a terrier — and be- 
fore we got over our surprise she gave us the tail end 
of a squall, like a whip-lash, that broke the mizzen 
goose-neck and sent the sail a-skying like a crazy kite. 
I let go all my halyards and pounced after my sails 
like a frantic washerwoman whose clothes have gone 
adrift in a backyard gale. The mainsail came first and 
then the jib. The truant mizzen which had dropped 
into the sea when I slipped its halyard came out torn 
and wet and I rolled it up and spanked it and stowed it 
in the cockpit. 

The sea had come up from the sudden shoaling 
where in a third of a mile the bottom jumps from a 
hundred and twenty fathoms to twelve, and as for the 
squall, that was just a frisky bit of trade that was not 
content with gathering speed around the end of the 
island but must slide down the side of a mountain to 
see how much of a rumpus it could raise on the water. 
I had run unawares — it was my own stupid carelessness 
that did it — on the shoals that extend to the southeast 
of Cachacrou Head where the seas jumped with nasty 
breaking heads that threatened to turn the Yakaboo 
end for end any minute. 

With the mizzen out of commission I might as well 
have stood in pink tights on the back of a balky farm 
horse and told him to cross his fingers as sail that 
canoe. I might have hoisted my jib and slowly run 
off the shoals to the westward, but that would have 
meant a hard tedious beat back to shore again for a 
good part of the night. I chose to work directly across 



238 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

the shoals with the oars. But it was no joking matter. 
My course lay in the trough of the sea and it was a 
question of keeping her stern to the seas so that I could 
watch them and making as much as I could between 
crests. 

Most of my difficulty lay in checking her speed when 
a comber would try to force her along in a mad tobog- 
gan ride and from this the palms of my hands became 
sore and developed a huge blister in each that finally 
broke and let in the salt water which was about in 
plenty. For an hour I worked at it, edging in crab- 
wise across the shoals till the seas began to ease up 
and I pulled around the Head to the quiet waters 
under its hook. Have you walked about all day in a 
stiff pair of new shoes and then come home to the ex- 
quisite ease of an old pair of bed-room slippers? Then 
you know how I felt when I could take a straight pull 
with my fingers crooked on the oars and my raw palms 
eased from their contact with the handles. 

Cachacrou Head is a rock which stands some two 
hundred and thirty-four feet up from the sea and is 
connected with the coast of Dominica by a narrow 
curved peninsula fifty yards across and half a mile in 
length. There is a small fort on the top of the Head 
and here on the night of September the seventh, in 
1778, the French from Martinique, with a forty-nine 
gun ship, three frigates and about thirty small sloops 
filled with all kinds of piratical rabble, captured the 
fort which was in those days supposed to be impreg- 
nable. It was the same old story; there is always a 
weak point in the armour of one's enemy — thirst being 
the vulnerable point in this case. The night before the 



LAND CRUISE— CALM OF GUADELOUPE 239 

capture some French soldiers who had insinuated them- 
selves into the fort, muddled the heads of the English 
garrison with wine from Martinique, and spiked the 
guns. The capture then was easy. By this thin wedge, 
the French gained control of Dominica and held the 
island for five years. 

Rowing close around the Head, I found a sandy bit 
of beach just where the peninsula starts for the main- 
land and with a feeling that here ended a good day's 
work, hauled the Yakaboo up on the smooth hard 
beach. The sun — it seems that I am continually talk- 
ing about the sun which is either rising or setting or 
passing through that ninety degree arc of deadly heat 
the middle of which is noon (it was now four o'clock) 
— was far enough on its down path so that the Head 
above me cast a grateful shade over the beach while 
the cool wind from the mountains insured the absence 
of mosquitoes. 

The lee coast of Dominica stretching away to the 
north was in brilliant light. You have probably gath- 
ered by this time that the Lesser Antilles are decidedly 
unsuited for camping and cruising as we like to do it 
in the North Woods. In a few isolated places on the 
windward coasts one might live in a tent and be healthy 
and happy, such as my camp with the Caribs; but to 
cruise and camp, that is travel and then rest for a 
day on the beach — this is impossible. In this respect 
my cruise was a distinct failure. 

When I did find a spot such as this, where I could 
still enjoy a part of the afternoon in comparative com- 
fort, I enjoyed it to the utmost. I did not unload the 
Yakaboo immediately — I merely took those things out 



240 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

of her that I wanted for my present use. Tabac de 
Diable, for instance, and my pipe, and then a change of 
clothes; but before I put on that change I shed my 
stiff briny sea outfit and sat down in a little sandy- 
floored pool in the rocks. There I smoked with my 
back against a rock while the reflex from the Carib- 
bean rose and fell with delightful intimacy from my 
haunches to my shoulders. 

For some time I rested there, with my hands be- 
hind my head to keep the blood out of my throbbing 
hands and the salt out of my burning palms. Across 
the bay was the town of Soufriere, not unlike the Souf- 
riere of Saint Lucia, from a distance, while a few miles 
beyond was Point Michelle and another few miles 
along was Roseau, the capital town of the island. 
Away to the north Diablotin rose nearly five thousand 
feet, within a hundred feet of the Soufriere of Guade- 
loupe, the highest mountain of the Lesser Antilles. 

After a while I got up, like a lazy faun (let us not 
examine the simile too closely for who would picture 
a sea faun smoking a Three-B and with a four days' 
stubble on his chin?). On a flat-topped rock near the 
canoe I spread out my food bags. Near this I started 
a fire of hardwood twigs that soon burned down to a 
hot little bed of coals over which my pot of erbswurst 
was soon boiling. This peameal soup, besides bacon 
and potatoes, is one of the few foods of which one may 
eat without tiring, three times a day, day in and day 
out, when living in the open. It is an excellent cam- 
paign food and can be made into a thin or thick soup 
according to one's fancy. I have eaten it raw and 
found it to be very sustaining. At home one would 



LAND CRUISE— CALM OF GUADELOUPE 241 

quickly tire of the eternal peameal and the salty bacon 
taste — but I never eat it when I am at home nor do I 
use in general the foods I take with me when cruising. 
The two diets are quite distinct. 

While the pot was boiling, I betook myself to a cosy 
angle in the rocks which I softened with my blanket 
bag, and fell to repairing my mizzen. My eye chanced 
to wander down the beach — is it chance or instinct? — 
and finally came to rest on a group of natives who 
stood watching me. Modesty demanded something 
in the way of clothes so I put on a clean shirt and 
trousers and beckoned to them. They were a timid 
lot and only two of them advanced to within fifty feet 
of the canoe and then stopped. I talked to them, but 
it was soon evident that they did not understand a 
word I said, even the little patois I knew got no word 
from them. Finally they summoned enough courage 
to depart and I was left to my mending. 

I had finished my sail and was enjoying my pea-soup 
and biscuits when my eye detected a movement down 
the beach and I saw a lone figure which advanced 
without hesitation and walked right into my camp 
where it smiled down at me from an altitude of three 
inches over six feet. 

"My name ess Pistole Titre, wat you name and 
frum war you cum?" 

I told him that my name was of little importance 
and that I had just come from Martinique. 

"Frum war before dat?" 

"Saint Lucia." 

"Frum war before dat?" 

"Saint Vincent." 



242 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

"Frum war before dat?" 

"Grenada." 

"An' you not afraid?" 

"Why should I be afraid? The canoe sails well." 

"I no mean de sea, I mean jumbie. How you don't 
know w'en you come to strange ilan de jumbie no take 
you?" 

There might be some truth in this but I answered, 
"I don't believe in jumbies." This he interpreted into, 
"I don't believe there are jumbies here." The fact 
that I did not believe in jumbies, the evil spirits of the 
Africans, was utterly beyond his conception — of course 
I believed in them, everybody did, but by some occult 
power I must know their haunts and could avoid them 
though I had never visited the place before. 

"I know jumbies no come here, but how you know? 
You wonderful man," he concluded. 

While this conversation was going on, I was secretly 
admiring his huge lithe body — such of it as could be 
seen through an open shirt and by suggestive line of 
limb ; he might have been some bronze Apollo come to 
animation, except for his face. His face was an ex- 
pression of good-will, intelligence, and energy that 
came to me as a refreshing relief from the shiny ful- 
some visage of the common native. 

The jumbies disposed of for the time being, Pistole 
sat down on a rock and made rapid inroads on a few 
soda biscuits and some pea-soup which I poured into a 
calabash. The native can always eat, and the eating 
of this salty soup with its bacon flavour seemed the very 
quintessence of gastronomic delight. When he had 
finished he pointed to a steep upland valley and told 



LAND CRUISE— CALM OF GUADELOUPE 243 

me he must go there to milk his cows. He would bring 
me a bottle of fresh milk, he said, when he came back 
again, for he was going to fish that night from the 
rocks under the Head. As he walked away along the 
beach, the breeze brought back, "An' he no 'fraid 
jumbies. O Lard!" 

My supper over, I turned the canoe bow toward 
the water and made up my bed in the cockpit. It 
would be too fine a night for a tent and I tied my candle 
light part way up the mizzen mast so that I could lie 
in my bed and read. At sunset I lit my lamp for the 
beach under the Head was in darkness. While the 
short twilight moved up from the sea and hovered for 
a moment on the highest mountain tops my candle grew 
from a pale flame to a veritable beacon that cast a 
sphere of light about the canoe, shutting out night from 
the tiny rock-hedged beach on which we lay. But 
Ulysses did not make me drowsy and I blew out my 
light and lay under that wonderful blue ceiling in which 
the stars blinked like live diamonds. The Dipper was 
submerged with its handle sticking out of the sea before 
me and Polaris hung low, a much easier guide than in 
the North. Just overhead Orion's belt floated like 
three lights dropped from a sky rocket. Through the 
low brush over the peninsula the Southern Cross tilted 
to westward. 

As I lay there stargazing, the rattle of a displaced 
stone told me of the coming of Pistole who laid down 
a long bamboo pole and seated himself on his haunches 
by the canoe. I relit my lamp that I might observe 
him better. Suspended from a tump line passing over 
the top of his head was a curious basket-like woven 



244 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

matting. From its depths he drew forth a bottle, 
known the world over, a four shouldered, high-sided 
termini that proclaimed gin as its original contents, but 
which was now filled with milk and corked with a wisp 
of upland grass. 

I stuck the bottle in the sand beside the canoe where 
the morning sun would not strike it and then dug 
around in my cosy little burrow and brought forth 
a bag of tobacco. Pistole did not smoke. He was 
supporting his mother and an aunt; it was hard work 
and he could not afford luxuries. Here certainly was 
a paradox, a native who forbore the use of tobacco ! 

Pistole came here often, he said, when there was not 
much moon, to fish at night from the rocks, using the 
white squid that shines in the water for bait. Some- 
times he filled his basket to the top with little rock 
fish and at other times he got nothing at all. He 
lighted his flambeau from my candle lamp and de- 
parted, leaving the pleasant odour of the burning gom- 
mier like an incense. I watched his progress as the 
light bobbed up and down and was finally extinguished 
far out on the rocks. 

Tired as I was, my throbbing hands kept me awake 
till Pistole returned some time later — the fish did not 
seem to be biting — and he lay down in the sand by the 
canoe. Had he seen a jumbie or was there a sign of 
lajoblesse? The huge creature edged in as close to 
the planking of the Yakaboo as he could get, like a 
remora fastened to the belly of a shark. The mono- 
tone of his snores brought on sleep and when I awoke 
the sun was well up above the mountains of Dominica. 
A lengthy impression in the sand was all that remained 



LAND CRUISE— CALM OF GUADELOUPE 245 

of the native who had long since gone to tend his cat- 
tle. 

There is one morning when I feel that I have a right 
to spread myself and that is on Sunday. It is from 
long force of habit that began with my earliest school 
days. There was no need for an early start and as 
for my breakfast, I spared neither time nor trouble. 

First I very slowly and very carefully reversed Pis- 
tole's bottle so as not to disturb the cream and then 
I let out the milk from under it. This was for the 
chocolate. The cream which would hardly pour and 
which I had to shake out of the bottle I set aside for 
my oatmeal. This I had started the night before and 
it only needed heating and stirring. I made the 
chocolate with the native "stick" and sweetened it with 
the Muscovado sugar and I even swizzled it and 
sprinkled nutmeg on the heavy foam on top after the 
old Spanish manner. That "head" would have put to 
shame the "Largest Schooner in Town." I also made 
a dish of scrambled eggs and smoked flying fish that 
Waddy had given me. It was a breakfast fit for a 
king and I felt proud of myself and congratulated my 
stomach on its neat capacity as I stretched out by a 
rock like a gorged reptile and lit my pipe. There was 
nothing, just then, that could increase the sum of my 
happiness. I should have been glad to have spent the 
day there but I knew that the sun would soon make a 
hell's furnace, of this delightful spot so when my pipe 
was finished I washed my dishes and loaded the canoe. 
I was having my "last look around" when I saw a 
crowd of natives coming up the beach with Pistole at 
their head. They were probably coming to see the 



246 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

canoe and to say good-bye so I sat down on a rock and 
waited for them. Pistole, who had apparently been 
appointed spokesman, said that they all lived in a vil- 
lage, not far off, but hidden from view by the bush. 
They were very anxious to show me their village — 
would I come with them? 

Pistole led the way along the peninsula to a cres- 
cent of beach that might have been on the lagoon of 
an atoll in the South Sea islands. Under the coco- 
palms that hung out over the beach almost to the 
water's edge were the canoes of the village. Behind 
the scrubby growth that fringed the beach was a double 
row of huts with a wide path between them parallel 
to the shore. Down this path or avenue I was led in 
review while the homes of the persons of distinction 
were pointed out to me. These differed from the or- 
dinary huts in that they were sided with unpainted 
boards. One or two were built of American lumber, 
painted and with shingled roofs. Half the village fol- 
lowed us while the other half sat in its respective 
doorways. Oh! the luxury of those door steps; to 
those who sat there it was like beholding a Memorial 
Day procession from the carpeted steps of a city house. 
This world is merely one huge farce of comparison. 
At the end of the avenue — let us give it as much dis- 
tinction as possible — we retraced our steps and the 
march came to an end at the house of Pistole's mother. 
This, I might say, was one of the finest and contained 
two rooms. The big native was very proud of his 
mother and aunt who received me with the graciousness 
of women of royalty and brought out little cakes and 
glasses of cocomilk and rum. The heat was growing 



LAND CRUISE— CALM OF GUADELOUPE 247 

outside and I must get off the beach, so I said "Good- 
bye" and went back to the canoe followed by a small 
caravan bearing offerings of the village, waternuts and 
pineapples. 

The wind was roaring down the mountainsides, for 
this quarter continued fresh, and I left the beach with 
the reefed mainsail only. The sea was like a floor and 
with a small gale for a beam wind the reefed sail lifted 
the Yakaboo along like a toboggan. I held in for the 
town of Soufriere in order to keep the smooth water 
and when I was part way across the bay the lightish 
water under me suddenly turned to a deep blue — the 
colour of sea water off shore. There was a sharp well- 
defined line which I crossed again and was once more 
in lighter water. It was L'Abime, Dominica's subma- 
rine crater. 

In less than an hour I lowered sail off the main jetty 
of Roseau. 

It was not quite twelve. The whole town had begun 
breakfast at eleven and was still eating. I may not 
be absolutely correct in saying that the whole town was 
eating for there was one individual who was on duty 
and enjoying a nap in the shade of the custom-house 
at the shore end of the jetty. There was another also 
— but he did not belong to the town — the captain of 
the coasting steamer Yare, a jolly little Irishman 
whom I came to know better in St. Thomas. He was 
not at breakfast and he yelled a welcome from the 
bridge of his steamer at her Sunday rest by the big 
mooring buoy in the roadstead. I ran up my ensign 
on the mizzen halyard and yelled at the man inshore. 



248 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

He rubbed his eyes but did not seem to know why he 
should be disturbed. 

"Where is the harbour-master?" 
"At him breakfus' — w'at you want?" 
"I want to land. Don't you see my ensign?" 
"O Lard! I t'at it wuz de Umium Jack." 
At this Wilson, of the Yare, sent out a great roar 
across the water. "You don't think that ebony ass 
knows the difference between one flag and another, do 
you?" he inquired much to the offence of the e. a. 
With some sheepishness, the revenue man came down 
to the landing place where I prepared to tie up the 
Yakaboo while awaiting the answer from the harbour- 
master. But no, I could not even fasten my painter 
to one of the iron piles, — I must lie off in the roads 
till word came that my papers had been passed upon. 
There might be the chance that I had yellow fever 
aboard. In an hour the boatman returned with word 
that I might come ashore. In view of what followed 
I should add that when I handed my papers to the 
boatman I told him that I had already landed at 
Scott's Head under stress of weather and that he 
should report this to the harbour-master. Some days 
later while I was fitting a new goose-neck to the miz- 
zen of the Yakaboo in the courtyard of the Colonial 
Bank, word was brought that I was "wanted" by the 
Acting Colonial Treasurer. I knew from the tone of 
the demand that something was in the air. When I 
was ushered into the presence of that august little per- 
sonage, I was asked with considerable circumlocution 
why I landed at Scott's Head before making official 
entry at Roseau. 



LAND CRUISE— CALM OF GUADELOUPE 249 

"Who told you?" I whispered, as if he were about 
to disclose an interesting bit of gossip. 

"The police officer of Soufriere telephoned this 
morning that he saw your camp at Scott's Head on 
Sunday morning." (It was now Friday, five days la- 
ter.) I said that I hoped the lazy officer at Soufriere 
had been duly reprimanded for not having reported 
me sooner. 

"What!" the little man shouted. "You are the one 
to be reprimanded for having landed and not having 
mentioned the fact when you gave up your papers at 
Roseau. Do you know that you are liable to two 
weeks' quarantine ?" By this time my ire should have 
been goaded to the loud-talking point. I leaned for- 
ward in a confidential way and whispered (he seemed 
to dislike this whispering) , "Let's have in the boatman 
who took my papers on Sunday morning." They 
might have been the dying words of some unfortunate 
victim of a street accident asking for his wife or his 
mother. 

The boatman came in due time accompanied by loud 
tones of authority which issued from his thick-soled 
boots. The weight of the Empire was in every step. 
Then I stood up and looked hard into a pair of hazel 
eyes while I asked the owner if I had not mentioned, 
when I handed him my papers, the fact that I had 
spent the night at Scott's Head under stress of weather. 
I owned those eyes while he spoke the truth and said, 
"Yes." 

"Don't you know, Mr. S ," I asked, "that under 

stress of weather — my mizzen having blown away — I 
may land at any convenient beach and then proceed to 



250 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

the nearest port as soon as repairs are effected?" One 
would think that we were talking about some great 
steamer inste^a of a sailing canoe. I did not, however, 
mention my visit to the village on the peninsula. 

When the Yakaboo was ready for sea again, I 
chucked her into the basement of the Colonial Bank 
and started on a land cruise through the hills of the 
island. I would hire a small horse and circumnavigate 
the island on its back, carrying with me a couple of 
blankets, a pail and a frypan. But the idyl stops there. 

Soon after I arrived at Roseau, word came to me 

that a Mr. B of Chicago was visiting his uncle on 

a plantation near the town. It turned out that I knew 
this man and in the course of time we met. When he 
heard of my plan to ride around the island, he em- 
braced the idea with great warmth — as some would put 
it — in fact he not only embraced it; he adopted it and 
when it came back to me it was entirely changed. It 
no longer belonged to me, it was a sad little stranger 
whom I knew not. Instead of camping near the road- 
side with a bully fire at night and the horses tethered 
close-by, this was all done away with by means of 
letters of introduction. Our blankets and our pots and 
pans were whisked away by folded pieces of paper in- 
side of other pieces of paper. Our food we need no 
longer trouble about. I felt like asking, "Please, 
ma'am, may I take a little eating chocolate and my 
pipe and tobacco?" 

It was on Friday then, oh, unlucky day for the skip- 
per of the Yakaboo! that I obtained a pony from the 
harbour-master. I did not see the horse till the next 
morning — a few minutes before the start which was 



" 




SUNSET ST. PIERRE. 




RUINS OF THE CATHEDRAL. 



LAND CRUISE— CALM OF GUADELOUPE 251 

scheduled for eight o'clock. I have inferred that there 
is but little humour or the sense of it in the English 
islands, at least, but this animal was a pun — the lowest 
form of humour. To have called him a joke would 
have put a burden on him that would eventually have 
swayed his back till a fifth wheel would have been 
necessary to keep his poor paunch off the ground. And 
as for that poor paunch — there was the seat of all the 
trouble. It had not been filled often enough nor full 
enough and as in nature we come to liken the things 
we eat, this poor beast was becoming of necessity an 
ethereal being. I asked the man who brought it if they 
taxed horses in the island by the head or by the pound. 
The coloured groom very politely informed me — for 
was I not travelling in the West Indies in search of 
information? — that there was, of course, a tax on every 
horse in the island, and as for the pound, there was 
a small fee levied on every animal that got astray and 
was brought there. If you were sitting with me in my 
cosy little cabin and we were discussing that horse I 
should say, "Poor brute, I felt damn sorry for him," 
in that earnest tone which you would understand. 

I am not heavy in build, however, neither did I 
have any luggage to add weight, for a porter had been 
engaged to carry our extra duffle on his head. With a 
small cargo of chocolate to port and a supply of to- 
bacco and matches to starboard, I adjusted the stir- 
rups and mounted my poor animal. Even then I felt 
him go down below his Plimsoll marks. I wore my 
ordinary sea outfit which I had carefully washed. I 
had one suit of "store clothes" but I was not going to 
befoul them on any uncurried West Indian skate for 



252 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

any man, no matter how exalted his position might be. 

B , rather chunky of build, arrived well mounted 

at the stroke of the hour and at a brisk canter. If he 
were not what one might call au fait, he bore some as- 
pects of the gentleman-rider even if he wore his trous- 
ers stuffed into leggings instead of "breeks." He had 
apparently noticed that there was a figure mounted on 
a horse by the roadside but until he was close upon 
me he did not realise that this was to accompany him 
on his ride around the island. When he recognised 
me his face fell like a topsail taken aback and he in- 
stinctively looked around to see if any one saw him 
with me. 

"Good God!" he muttered, "you're not going to 
ride in that rig, are you?" 

"You don't expect me to wear a hunting coat on 
this caricature, do you? Let's be off." 

"Yes, let's be off," he said, as he put spurs to his 
horse and raced along the road toward Laudat. 

"Let's be off," I whispered into the ear of my Rosi- 
nante — for he was a she — and with a thwack I started 
her clattering after my friend. 

By careful husbanding the strength of my animal we 
reached Laudat at ten o'clock. That is, I did. My 
friend had arrived there several times and had gone 
back occasionally to note my progress. 

Laudat is a little settlement nearly half way across 
the island where one takes the trail for a rather 
arduous climb to the Boiling Lake in the Soufriere 
mountains. Through the courtesy of a priest in Ros- 
eau a rest house was put at our disposal. Here we 
feasted on raspberries, coffee and bread, after which 



LAND CRUISE— CALM OF GUADELOUPE 253 

we started for the Boiling Lake. I shall not weary 
you with a laborious description of a laborious climb 
along a narrow trail, muddy and slippery and root- 
crossed, nor of the everlasting din of the anvil bird that 
somehow makes a noise like the ringing of steel against 
iron, nor of the Boiling Lake. The next day we fin- 
ished our crossing and followed the road along the 
windward side to the estate of Castle Bruce where we 
stopped for the night. 

The following day we rode to Melville Hall where 
we were received by the Everingtons. It was along 
this coast, somewhere between Crumpton and Pagoua 
Points that Columbus tried to land on the morning of 
November 3rd, when he gave Dominica its name and 
then proceeded to the northward and set foot the same 
day on the shore's of Maria Galante which he named 
after his ship. From Melville Hall we rode to Hamp- 
stead and then across the northeast corner of the island 
to Portsmouth. 

Lying in the smooth waters of Prince Rupert Bay 
were three American whalers, a remnant of a fleet of 
sixteen that had gathered there to transship oil. As 
you may remember from your early American history, 
the English government has always been extremely 
fond of gaining revenue through petty taxation. They 
even tax rowboats in some of the islands and in Saint 
Vincent the crude little catamaran on which the Black 
Carib boy is seated (page 143) is taxed thrupence per 
foot. Imbued with this idea, a petty official of Do- 
minica once suggested to the skipper of an American 
whaler that he should be made to pay a tax for the 
use of the shelter of the island. To this the Yankee 



254 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

skipper replied, "Go ahead and make your law and 
your tax, we'll tow one of our own damn islands down 
here and use that." 

I have said little about my Rosinante, who seemed, 
somehow, to improve on the good food she was get- 
ting. She bore up well; I rode her with a loose girth 
and took the best possible care of her. If I could only 
nurse her for a month or so I might make a present- 
able beast of her. As it was, I felt that I was riding 
a rather tough skin in which an old piece of machinery 
was moving with considerable lost motion. I remem- 
ber speculating as to what price the harbour-master 
would charge me if the mare died while in my care and 
wondering what return I might gain from her carcass. 
There was this comfort, her skin was tough and should 
she drop on some precipitous path her bones and eter- 
nal economy would not burst out and go clattering 
down into the valley below. I was sure of what might 
be left of her and in a pinch I could skin her and sell 
the -flesh to the natives, break up the bones for fer- 
tiliser and use her hoofs for gelatine. It was an ab- 
sorbing bit of speculation but did not interest B , 

whose mind was usually occupied with problems of 
much higher finance. But there was no real cause for 
worry. On the last day we covered fully twenty-five 
miles of road that was mostly up and down hill. I 
gained as much respect for her as most any West In- 
dian I had met. 

It was the loose girth which caused me to lose my 
last shred of dignity. We were descending a steep 
path down the side of a valley in the bed of which 
flowed a small fordable stream. There was no mis- 



LAND CRUISE— CALM OF GUADELOUPE 255 

hap until we reached the river bank which dropped 
away steeply to the water's edge. For some unac- 
countable reason I and Rosinante were ahead. Slowly 
Rosinante felt her way down the bank and then stood, 
bow down, like the Yakaboo scending a sea. In a de- 
tailed description I should have said that she was built 
for'ard somewhat like a cow — lacking shoulders. The 
saddle of its own accord had begun to slide forward. I 
reached for her tail and missed it. Her forefeet were 
in ten inches of water while her after props were still 
on dry land. Even then I might have saved myself 
by taking to the after deck. Slowly she lowered her 
muzzle to the stream. There was nothing for it, the 
saddle slid down the sharp ridge of her neck and I 
landed with my hands in the water as if I too would 
drink. As I rolled off into the stream I thought I 
caught Rosinante in the act of winking her eye — or 
was it only a fly that bothered? 

Our land cruise ended that evening and I bade good- 
bye to my friend. Rosinante was returned to the har- 
bour-master and I went back to the Yakaboo. 

Travelling up the Dominica shore I had my first 
taste of calm. It was not the blazing calm that I was 
to experience a few days later but it was a good fore- 
taste. In light weather there is usually a calm spot 
along the northern half of the coast line up to Prince 
Rupert Bay. Just around the bluff the trade strikes 
the sea again and here I set sail and ran into Toucari 
Bay where there is a little coast village. Here was 
the last bit of beach whence I could make my departure 
for Guadeloupe and I hauled the canoe out on the 
sand at the far end from the village. 



256 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

The people came down to the beach and insisted 
upon carrying my canoe well up from the water. They 
asked me where I was going to sleep and I pointed 
to the cockpit of the Yakaboo. At this one of the head 
men said that I must sleep in the village. He would 
see to it that a room in one of the houses was cleaned 
out for me and that his wife would cook my evening 
meal. I conceded this last point and taking up my 
food bags walked with him to the village. 

While my supper was cooking, a woman came to 
me and asked if I would see her son. He was dying, 
she thought (the native is always dying with each com- 
plaint, however slight), and the coast doctor would 
not reach the village for several days. I told her that 
I was no medicine man s but she would not believe that 
I could travel alone as I did without some mystic power 
to cure all diseases. I found the boy, about eighteen 
years old, in great distress, suffering possibly from 
acute gastritis — a not uncommon ailment of the West 
Indian negro. I muttered some Latin a la Bill Nye 
and gave him a pill that could do no harm and might 
do some good. I dare say my diagnosis and prescrip- 
tion were not much wider of the mark than those of 
many practitioners of high repute. I was playing safe, 
for if the boy died subsequently I knew it not. I re- 
turned to my supper of chocolate and jack fish and 
then made up my bed in the canoe. 

Long before the sun began to throw his light over 
the mountains of Dominica I had folded my blankets 
and was eating a scanty breakfast, for the day promised 
well and I was anxious to be sailing. My channel 
runs, so far, had been boisterous and exhilarating, like 



LAND CRUISE— CALM OF GUADELOUPE 257 

a race from tree to tree in a game of blindman's buff, 
the trees being distant conical patches of grey-blue 
land; but this run of the Saints was a pleasant jaunt. 
Seventeen miles to the northwest lay Les Saintes, a 
group of picturesque islands that stood out fresh and 
green even as I cleared Dominica. Ten miles farther 
on my course was Guadeloupe. Nineteen miles to the 
northeast lay the larger island of Marie Galante and 
when I opened the Atlantic to the north of her I could 
make out the hump of distant Desirade. 

It was in these waters that Rodney caught up with 
the French fleet under De Grasse on the morning of 
April 12th, 1782. It is difficult for us to realise that 
in these islands that now appear to us to be of such 
little importance, a battle such as this — the Battle of 
the Saints— should be one of the turning points which 
led directly to the supremacy of Great Britain on the 
sea. England stood alone against the world. The 
American colonies had declared their independence 
and Cornwallis had surrendered at Yorktown. France 
and Spain were eager to end, once for all, the power 
of England's navy. The Dutch had been defeated off 
the Dogger Bank and the year before, Rodney had 
captured their island of St. Eustatius and unroofed 
Oranjetown, as you shall see when I take you there 
in the Yakaboo. 

The French fleet was considered a perfect fighting 
machine and while De Grasse had thirty-three ships to 
Rodney's thirty-five they were considered to have the 
advantage on their side, due to greater tonnage and a 
larger number of guns per ship. But the French were 
weak in one point and that was sailing to windward — 



258 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

this was offset in a measure by their superior ability to 
run off the wind and escape from their foes, should the 
battle go against them. On the morning of April 12th, 
Hood led the British fleet, which was apparently to 
windward, while Rodney in the Formidable was in 
the center. The French fleet was in a line parallel to 
the English and a safe distance to leeward. The wind 
was evidently light. Then, we are told, "a sudden gale 
of wind gave the British admiral his chance — abruptly 
turning his flagship to larboard he broke through the 
French line." This "gale of wind" was probably the 
usual freshening of the trade at about eight o'clock, 
which Rodney's ships received first because he was to 
windward of the French. By breaking into the line 
as he did, the whole of Rodney's fleet was concentrated 
on two-thirds of the French and the English could use 
both broadsides at one time while the French could 
only use one. In the cannonading which followed, a 
rooster which had escaped from the coops on board 
the Formidable stood on the bowsprit and crowed de- 
fiantly. "It was a good omen to the sailors, who 
worked their guns with redoubled vigour." Six of the 
French ships were captured and the rest fled to lee- 
ward, mostly in a crippled condition. 

Rodney at this time was sixty-three years old, a 
roue, a gambler, and crippled with gout. But he was 
considered the best admiral whom the British had. 
Some years before, he had fled to France to escape 
debt and it was a Frenchman, Marshall Biron, who 
paid his debts and made him return to England because 
he did not want to have his country deprived of the 
glory of beating the British with their best admiral at 



LAND CRUISE— CALM OF GUADELOUPE 259 

their head. It had been too rash a gamble. Although 
Rodney's tactics, in the Battle of the Saints, may have 
been thought of on the spur of the moment, they were 
first evolved by a Scottish minister, John Clark of 
Eldin, and were a lesson to Nelson who embodied them 
in the "Nelson touch" at Trafalgar. 

I passed close to the Saints and looked with great 
longing on a pretty little fishing village on the lee coast 
of Terre d } en Bas. There were some white people 
on the beach where several smart looking fishing boats 
were drawn up on the sand. I would have given much 
to have been allowed to land there, but I knew there 
was no port of entry in the Saints and remembering 
my Martinique experiences I held my course for Basse 
Terre on Guadeloupe. Soon after, the wind left us 
and I rowed into the roadstead of Basse Terre at the 
very peak of the heat of a calm day, that is, three 
o'clock in the afternoon. 

It was the eighth of May and getting on toward 
June when the light winds and calm weather of the 
hurricane season begin. There is no doubt as to the 
degeneracy of the white man in the tropics due to the 
heat. First comes the loss of temper. I noticed this 
in my own case. I had become short tempered and 
swore at the slightest provocation. 

When I rowed in close to the seawall of the town 
and located a small building where a duane boat was 
hung in davits under a roof to protect it from the sun 
and over which a customs flag hung limp from a 
staff, I felt that I was reasonably correct in guessing 
that this was the office of the harbour-master. There 
were a few loafers on a jetty that stood half-heartedly 



260 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

just far enough out from shore to clear the surf. I 
addressed these as best I could and asked for the 
harbour-master. They did not seem to understand, 
neither did they care. I asked again and louder, then 
I flung my wretched French to the oily sea and used 
the most concise and forcible English I could com- 
mand — not that I thought it would do any good but 
just to let off the steam of my ire. A miracle oc- 
curred! A head and shoulders became visible in one 
of the windows of the customs' office, for such it was, 
and yelled: 

"Keep your shirt on, old man, we're not fussy here. 
Come right ashore and I'll take your papers after 
we've said, 'How do you do.' ' This was the great- 
est shock I had yet received in the Caribbean. When 
I recovered myself — I had been standing in order to 
swear the better — I sat down to row ashore. Basse 
Terre is built along an open roadstead somewhat like 
St. Pierre but with a retaining wall built up from a 
steep shelving beach to the level of the streets fifteen 
feet above. I beached the Yakaboo under the sea wall 
where a number of boatmen lifted her up and carried 
her to a place of safety. The English-speaking har- 
bour-master, who really was an American, came out, 
grabbed my hand, and led me into his office. 

"It's a darn small ensign you carry, but it does my 
heart good to see it," he said, and then he began to 
introduce me to some of his cronies who had been 
helping him to pass away a hot calm afternoon with 
a gossip and a smoke. There were Henri Jean-Louia 
(Homme de Lettres, Charge de mission agricole par 
la Chambre d' agriculture de Point-a-Pitre et le Conseil 



LAND CRUISE— CALM OF GUADELOUPE 261 

general de la Guadeloupe), and Hubert Ancelin 
(Negociant-Commissionaire, Secretaire-Tresorier des 
Chambres de Commerce et d' Agriculture, Agent de la 
Compagnie "Quebec Line") — I am reading the titles 
of these dignitaries from the cards they gave me — and 
there was a small French-looking man with a great deal 
of dignity who seemed very much interested in every- 
thing we said. 

Jean-Louia, the newspaper man, asked me if I would 
care for a little refreshment. I replied that since I 
was no longer in a whisky-and-soda country any liquid 
refreshment he might choose would be very acceptable. 
In a short time some cakes and a bottle of champagne 
were brought in. My health was proposed (there 
were certainly no outward signs of my immediate de- 
cline) and we drank the delicious wine in delicate cham- 
pagne glasses. Bum that I was, — you shall have an ac- 
curate description later, — if I had been suddenly 
dropped into the middle of a ball room I would not 
have felt more incongruous than drinking champagne 
and eating bits of French pastry less than a quarter of 
an hour from the time I had left the Caribbean and 
the Yakaboo. 

But I must bring forward the little man who has 
shown great interest in our conversation. He was 
dressed in white duck, trousers loose and baggy, coat 
with military cut, and he wore moustachios, — a typical 
Frenchman. I had been doing my uttermost with the 
meagre vocabulary that I could claim my own when 
I bethought myself of the little man who had listened 
but had not said a word. Neither had he been intro- 



262 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

duced to me as yet. I turned to Magras and said in 
English, 

"And who is this little Frenchman?" at which the 
"little Frenchman" piped up, "I'm no Frenchman, I'm 
a Yankee but I suppose I've been down here so darn 
long I look like one.. My name is Flower," he con- 
tinued, "and I came to ask if you would care to spend 
the night with me at my house." 

This certainly was a day of misjudgments and for a 
second time I could have been floored by a mere 
breath. I thanked Mr. Flower and told him that I 
should be delighted to spend the night with him. 

There were still two hours of daylight when I left 
the harbour-master's office with Mr. Flower, who with 
the energy characteristic of the small man in the tropics, 
led me through unshaded deserted streets to the out- 
skirts of the town to the half-ruined Fort Richepance 
on the banks of the Galion River. Basse Terre can- 
not be said to be picturesque; there is an arid barren 
aspect about the town that would not appeal to the 
tourist. That it has been a place of some importance 
one can see from the military plan of the wide streets, 
squares and substantial stone, brick and concrete houses. 
It was evidently not laid out by a civil governor. One 
might easily reconstruct a past full of romance and 
stirring incidents, for Basse Terre was the West Indian 
hotbed of revolution bred from the ferment in Paris. 
It was here that Victor Hugues began his notorious 
career. Born of mean parents in some part of old 
France he was early placed out as an apprentice. What- 
ever his character may have been, he was a man of 
spirit for he soon became master of a small trading 



LAND CRUISE— CALM OF GUADELOUPE 263 

vessel and was eventually made a lieutenant in the 
French navy. Through the influence of Robespierre 
he was deputed to the National Assembly. In 1794 
he was appointed Commissioner at Guadeloupe. 
Should his life history be written it would be a fas- 
cinating tale of cupidity, intrigue, murder and riot — a 
reflection of the reign of terror in the mother country. 
Had he been less of a rogue France instead of Eng- 
land might to-day have been the dominant power in 
the Lesser Antilles. 

The next day I experienced my first real calm in the 
tropics. My log reads: — "Tuesday, May 9th, 191 1 — 
Off at 8:30 (could not disturb my host's domestic 
schedule in order to make an early start) and a long 
weary row along the lee shore of Guadeloupe. Blister- 
ing calm with shifting puffs at times. Deshaies at 6 
p. M. Distance 27 miles. Beautiful harbour but un- 
healthy — turned in at local jail." 

I tried to sail in those shifting puffs but it was a 
waste of time. The lee coast of Guadeloupe is noted 
for its calms and on this May day when the trade to 
windward must have been very light, there was at times 
not a breath of air. I settled down for a long row. 
The heat did not become intense till eleven when what 
breeze there had been ceased and on all the visible 
Caribbean I could detect no darkened ruffle of its sur- 
face. The sun was well advanced into his danger arc. 
I had on a thick pair of trousers, a red sleeveless 
rowing shirt and a light flannel over-shirt open at the 
collar to let in as much air as possible. I made a nest 
of a bandana handkerchief and put it on my head. On 
top of that I lightly rested my hat. To protect the 



264 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

back of my neck I wore a red bandana loosely tied 
with the knot under my chin — just opposite to the fash- 
ion of the stage cowboy who wears his handkerchief 
like a napkin. 

Then, with the least possible effort, I rowed the 
canoe along shore, rarely turning my head but keep- 
ing the corner of my eye along the shore which is nearly 
straight in its general trend — a little west of north. 
From time to time I would stop and hold both oars in 
one hand while with the other I gently lifted the cloth 
of my trousers clear of the burning skin beneath. For 
a time I rowed with my sleeves down but the burn of 
the salt sweat and the friction of the cloth more than 
counteracted the benefit I might gain by shading my 
forearms and I rolled up my sleeves again. 

My forearms, one would suppose, had, after these 
three months of continual exposure, all the tan possible, 
but I found that after a while the skin was blushing a 
deep red and somewhat swollen and painful. The glare 
from the water was intense and to protect my eyes I 
screwed my face into the grin of a Cheshire cat, to 
elevate my cheeks and bring down my eyebrows. Try 
it and half close your eyes and you will know just what 
I mean. The sea heaved in long shallow ground- 
swells as though labouring heavily for breath. 

The dazzling beaches quivered in the heat waves 
while the mountains stood up sharp and strong in the 
fierce sunlight. There was not the slightest sign of fish 
and it seemed as though the sun had driven them to 
the coolest depths below. At twelve o'clock I stopped 
for a few minutes to eat a "pine" the natives had given 
me at Toucari Bay. This pineapple which, I believe, 



LAND CRUISE— CALM OF GUADELOUPE 265 

was originally brought from Antigua where the best 
pines of the West Indies are found, has a golden flesh, 
sweeter than the white fibrous fruit which we of the 
North know and yet with all of the tang. The core is 
soft and partly edible and one can eat the whole of 
one of these fruits with a pleasing absence of that 
acrid taste which leaves the after effect of putting 
one's teeth on edge. There are many fruits to which 
we refer as "delicious" and "refreshing" in our paucity 
of descriptive adjectives but these two words cannot 
be applied in a better sense than in describing the pine- 
apple of the Lesser Antilles. 

Two o'clock came and then, thank the Lord, the 
sun began to go appreciably to the westward so that 
by slightly raising the mainsail I could get some pro- 
tection. My long pull at last came to an end when at 
six o'clock I rowed into a beautiful little bay and 
beached the canoe at the very doorsteps of the village 
of Deshaies. The bay was a deep pocket walled by 
green hills on three sides and open to seaward where 
the sun with a guilty red face was hurrying to get be- 
low the horizon so that he could sneak around again 
as fast as possible in order to have some more fun 
scorching inoffensive canoe people. 

The bay, a snug enough harbour for small coasters, 
struck into the land like a tongue of the ocean mottled 
with shoals and coral reefs while the green of the hills 
was barred from the blue water by a narrow strip of 
white sand. The charm of the place was strong and I 
forgot the hot toil of the day while I stood on the beach 
by the Yakaboo and looked about me. Scarcely two 
canoe lengths from the water's edge stood the outposts 



266 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

of the village, those meaner houses of the fishermen, 
the beachcombers, and the keepers of small rum shops. 

The people, of the lighter shades of the mulatto, 
were loafing as to the male portion on this common 
back porch of beach, while the women were busy over 
ovens and coal-pots, preparing the evening meal. With 
the apathy of the island native they had watched me 
row into their quiet harbour and had waited till I was 
actually on the beach at their very door steps before 
they got up from their haunches to flock around the 
canoe. But now there was great excitement. They 
looked at me and at the canoe and there was nothing 
they saw about either of us that was at all familiar. 
To give them a thrill I pulled on the mizzen halyard 
and let it go again — the sail fanned out, crawled up 
the mast, slid down again, and folded up. 

Surprise and curiosity showed in all their features 
but they made no move to touch my things, they merely 
looked. Some one with an air of importance des- 
patched a boy for some one else who had official au- 
thority and soon after the acting mayor came down to 
the beach. The mayor, it seemed, was laid up with 
an attack of fever. The acting mayor was a dapper 
little person, very civil, and not at all officious. Could 
he do anything for me? I told him that from the 
evening set I believed there was promise of a strong 
wind on the morrow and that I was now preparing 
my canoe for an early start in order to jump the thirty- 
eight miles of open water to Montserrat before the 
trade might grow into a gale. Therefore I did not 
want to make a camp. I also said that I feared I had 
come to a fever hole — at which he grinned assent — 



LAND CRUISE— CALM OF GUADELOUPE 267 

and if he could find some place where I could sleep 
without the company of mosquitoes I would be deeply 
indebted to him. 

He told me that he would place the town "hotel" at 
my disposal and said that while he was attending to 
my papers he would get the key. As for the Yakaboo, 
she would be perfectly safe where she lay on the beach. 
In the meantime I would stretch my legs and see a bit 
of the town during the few remaining minutes of twi- 
light. Deshaies was of a regime which had lasted un- 
til recent years and the substantial houses of its main 
street reminded me of those of our "before the war" 
cities in the Southern states. Dilapidation was every- 
where ; there were no actual ruins. The old prosperity 
was gone and the town was waiting dormant till the 
coming of that more stable inheritance which is the 
natural right of a soil wonderfully fertile. 

There were iron grills and balconies and bits of 
paved roadway and courtyard and there were faces 
among those easy-going people that took my mind back 
to Mayero and the descendants of the Saint-Hilaire 
family. But the banded Anopheles were coming from 
the Deshaies River bed in millions and I returned to 
the beach where I found the acting mayor waiting for 
me. He had borrowed a sheet of my note paper which 
he now returned, a neatly written document to the 
effect that I had landed that evening at Deshaies — 
sans rien d'anormal — on my way to Montserrat. Then 
he showed me a great iron key and led me across the 
street to that "hotel" which is less sought after than 
needed. 

It was the town lock-up ! — consisting of a detached 



268 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

building of one story and having two rooms, perhaps 
more properly cells, which were heavily barred and 
shuttered. In the first room a deal table stood in the 
middle of the floor. On this I put my food bags and 
my candle lamp which I lit, for it was now dark out- 
side. There was but one thought in my mind, to get 
as much rest as possible, for the next day might prove 
a hard one. 

I borrowed a coal-pot and while I cooked my supper 
I chatted with the acting mayor. He was to be mar- 
ried, he said, and that night there was to be a dance 
in honour of his betrothal. He would deem it a great 
honour if I would come to the dance, but I declined, 
saying that unless I was very much mistaken the mor- 
row would be the last day for two weeks in which I 
might safely cross the channel and that I feared to 
remain in this fever hole any longer than I could pos- 
sibly help. To avoid the possibility of being annoyed 
by rats, I carried my food back to the canoe where I 
stowed it safely under the hatches. 

The acting mayor bade me good night and left me 
to smoke my evening pipe on the doorstep of the jail. 
After a while the preliminary scale of a flute and the 
open fifths of a violin announced that the ball was 
about to begin and I closed the ponderous door of the 
jail on the strains of the first dance. I had long since 
put out my light lest it attract mosquitoes and as I 
made up my bed on the floor I heard the scampering 
of rats in the darkness. I must confess to a childish 
horror of rats that is even greater than that of snakes 
and I finally put a new candle in my lamp so that it 
might burn all night. 



LAND CRUISE— CALM OF GUADELOUPE 269 

I was awakened at five o'clock in the morning by 
the acting mayor who was returning from the dance. 
The town did not awaken at five, it seemed, and there 
was no glowing coal-pot to be had. To my disgust 
there was not a stick in the canoe and on the beach 
there were nothing but soggy coco-tree fronds. At last 
a door creaked and from the woman who opened it I 
bought some charcoal. In spite of my precautions of 
the night before, it was an hour and twenty minutes 
before I finally shoved off in the Yakaboo. 



CHAPTER XI 

WE MAKE OUR BEST RUN 

WE left the beach in a dead calm. The sun was 
nearly an hour above an horizon of trade 
clouds and even as I rowed I could see the wind that 
was coming begin to darken the water in patches to 
the eastward. In half an hour the wind caught up to 
us and soon after I set sail. We were scarcely free 
of Guadeloupe when the canoe began to move with the 
first light breaths, over a long easy swell. Montserrat 
was a hazy blur on the horizon, and I should have to 
look sharp lest I miss it. 

For a while I held directly for the blur, but as the 
wind freshened it began to work into the south'ard 
and I shifted my course till I was running wing and 
wing with the island two points to weather. I did this 
so that later in the day I would not have a hard wind 
and a heavy sea directly abaft — the most ticklish and 
nerve-tiring condition for canoe sailing. The wind was 
increasing steadily and I knew I was in for half a gale 
— and a good run. I also knew that while it was 
necessary to make as much speed as possible, I should 
have to keep a sharp eye on my gear, for if anything 
crippled my rig for windward work I was in for an 
adventure on the Caribbean. This wind held for a 
week and were I blown clear of Montserrat there 

270 



WE MAKE OUR BEST RUN 271 

would be no choice but to keep on with some sort of 
rig up till I struck Saint Croix, one hundred and seventy- 
five miles away. 

If ever at any time on this cruise, I was now sail- 
ing along the thin edge of things. Although it was a 
second quarter that had come in soft, it seemed that 
a fifth day had slipped in somehow for the weather 
was on a rampage. We were nearing the end of the 
regular trade season and might expect our almost in- 
fallible weather signs to break down. I found that 
my barometer showed but little variation during the 
time I was in the Lesser Antilles and only kept tabs 
on it in order to note the decided drop which might 
indicate the approach of any weather more severe than 
the ordinary blow. 

As far as I could see to windward, north and south, 
squalls were now chasing down as though there were 
two conditions of wind; one a stiff breeze and the 
other a series of squalls moving independent of and 
through the first. The canoe was travelling so fast — 
we were making a good six knots — that I could easily 
dodge most of the squalls by tacking down the wind 
like a square rigger. Once I was actually running off 
on the port tack wsw while the course from Deshaies 
was nw^w. There was no harm in being thrown 
off my course to the south and west for it ultimately 
served to place Montserrat all the more to windward. 

When the wind which was blowing from east-south- 
east finally declared itself a young gale, I found to my 
great relief that I had worked my way so far to the 
westward that my course for the island was now a little 
better than NwbN. Instead of having to run within 



272 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

one point of being dead before the wind our course 
was now two points farther to windward. Nearly 
every sea was breaking and we were making a con- 
tinual succession of toboggan rides, the breaking seas 
at times carrying us up the back of the sea ahead so 
that we were actually travelling a little faster than the 
waves themselves. This surf-riding soon became a 
regular habit and I was forced to reef the mainsail 
and mizzen lest the Yakaboo turn end for end. We 
now slowed down to a more reasonable speed. 

One might imagine that at a time like this I would 
have little chance for observation and yet with my 
senses alert to their highest efficiency there was very 
every sea was breaking and we were making a con- 
tinual circuit from the compass in my cockpit into the 
belly of my mainsail, up the mast and down again to 
the seas about me. Then they swung on a quick cir- 
cuit through a hundred and eighty degrees from the 
seas under our bows to the squalls astern, taking in 
the skies on their return. 

It was on this mind panorama that I saw more dis- 
tinctly than at any other time the manner in which these 
islands gather moisture from the trade clouds. For a 
time after we had left Deshaies, Montserrat moped 
mist-wrapped on the horizon. Then slowly the heat 
of the morning sun prevailed and the island became 
more and more definite in outline till it at last showed 
clear and distinct — a volcano on the horizon. The 
island is made up of two peaks but from my position 
they were almost directly in line so that I saw only 
the outline of the southernmost and larger, the 
Soufriere. 



WE MAKE OUR BEST RUN 273 

The wind was then blowing lightly and the sky was 
clear of clouds except in the east where they were ad- 
vancing in droves with the wind before the sun. The 
trade overtook us first and then came the clouds, fleecy 
and bulging, like ships before the wind, each with a 
squall under it. I watched a small cloud, one of the 
first of the van, approach the peak with unslackened 
speed till it lodged against the mountainside two thou- 
sand feet above the sea, where it came to a full stop. 
It seemed almost to recoil a bit. Then it slowly em- 
braced the peak and more slowly began to draw away 
again to the westward. When it was finally clear of 
the island I saw that it had lost half its bulk. Mont- 
serrat had taken her toll in mountain showers. 

For a space the peak was again clear in outline, two 
volcanic curves that came out of the sea to meet three 
thousand feet above. Next a large stately cloud, a 
ship of the line among the others, enveloped the peak 
and came to a stop. There it hung and diminished in 
size till it was reinforced by another cloud and for the 
rest of my run the upper third of the island was hidden 
in a cloud cap, which diminished and increased in vol- 
ume like slow breathing. 

The wind seemed to be continually freshening and 
I found that although I had reduced my sail area by 
nearly one-half, I was again catching up to the seas 
ahead and tobogganning. I had moved the duffle in 
my cockpit as far aft as I could and sat on the deck 
with my back against the mizzen mast. Just above 
my head I lashed my camera — the most precious part 
of my outfit. At the first indication of broaching-to 
I would take hold of the mast and force her over on 



274 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

her weather bilge till she was almost before the wind. 
Then I would let her come up to her course and hold 
her there till she took the bit in her teeth again when 
I would have to pry her back as before. 

My blood was up and I told her that she could turn 
end for end if she wanted and tear the rig out before 
I would take in any more sail. A bit of anger is a 
great help at times. Another time, when I go canoe, 
cruising on the sea, I shall carry a small square-sail 
and a sea anchor that I can readily trip. In spite of 
all my efforts it seemed that we should be forced to 
weather of Montserrat and that I should have to run 
off for a while to the southeast. But we were sailing 
faster than I suspected and at last fetched up abreast 
of the southern end of the island and about a quarter 
of a mile off shore. Then I brought her into the wind 
and hove-to with the reefed mizzen and let the wind 
carry us into the calm water under the lee of the 
island. 

I looked at my watch and found that it was just 
eleven-thirty. We had made our last long jump, the 
most exciting of all our channel runs in the Caribbean. 
We had covered thirty-five miles in five hours and ten 
minutes. We had sailed thirty-three miles in four 
hours and forty minutes — our average speed had been 
a little more than seven miles an hour. For some time, 
however, after I had made sail our speed was not much 
more than five miles, and I believe that the last nine 
miles had been covered in an hour, with fifty square 
feet of sail up ! Except in a racing canoe I had never 
sailed faster in a small craft than on this run. 

The wind, eddying around the end of the island, was 



WE MAKE OUR BEST RUN 275 

carrying us directly along shore and I lowered my 
mizzen while I ate my luncheon. It was pleasant to 
drift along without thought of course and to watch 
the shore go by at a three-mile gait. I had just settled 
myself comfortably in the cockpit when I noticed, a 
native who had come down to the beach waving his 
arms frantically. That we drifted as fast as he could 
walk along shore was good evidence that the wind was 
blowing strongly. I learned afterwards that he thought 
me to be the sole survivor of a fishing boat that had 
been lost a week before from Nevis. She was never 
heard from. After I landed at Plymouth I was told 
that a sloop had been dismasted that morning in the 
roadstead. 

At the time it was a genuine source of satisfaction, 
not that I was happy in the ill luck of the sloop, but 
I regarded this as proof of the sturdy qualities of the 
Yakaboo. One must, however, always be fair in such 
matters and it is only right for me to say that after 
further acquaintance with the sloops of the Lesser 
Antilles it is a marvel to me that they stand up as well 
as they do. The credit does not rest with the Yakaboo 
but rather with the freak luck of the West Indian 
skipper. God, it seems, has greater patience with these 
fellows than with any other people who have to do 
with the sea — I have purposely avoided calling the 
natives of the Lesser Antilles sailormen. 

There was not much in Montserrat for me. Thirty 
miles to the northwest lay Nevis and St. Kitts — step- 
ping stones to St. Eustatius and Saba. A nearer in- 
vitation than these was Redonda, a rounded rock like 
Diamond off Martinique which rose almost sheer to a 



276 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

height of a thousand feet out of deep water with no 
contiguous shoals, a detached peak like those of the 
Grenadines — a lone blot with Montserrat the nearest 
land, eight miles away. On the ioth of November in 
1493 Columbus coasted along Guadeloupe and discov- 
ered Monserratte, which he named after the mountain 
in Spain where Ignatius Loyola conceived the project of 
founding the Society of Jesus. "Next," says Barbot, 
"he found a very round island, every way perpendicu- 
lar so that there seemed to be no getting up into it with- 
out ladders, and therefore he called it Santa Maria la 
Redonda." The Indian name was Ocamaniro. 

It was on the morning, when I was loading the 
Yakaboo for the run to Redonda, that I came as near 
as at any time to having a passenger. As I was stow- 
ing my duffle, there was the usual circumcurious audi- 
ence, beach loafers mostly, with a transient friend or 
two who had come down early to see me off. The fore- 
hatch was still open when the parting of the crowd pro- 
claimed the coming of a person of superior will, not 
unaccompanied by a height of figure, six feet two — 
strong and raw-boned, the masculine negress of the 
English islands. She carried a large bottle of honey 
and a jar of preserved fruits. 

"My name is Rebecca Cooper," she said by way of 
introduction, "an' I cum to ask if you take a passenger 
to Nevis wid you." 

I looked at the cockpit of the Yakaboo and at her 
tall figure. 

"Oh, me seafarin' woman, me no 'fraid. Oh, yas, I 
been Trinidad — been aal 'roun' !" 



WE MAKE OUR BEST RUN 277 

"I'm sorry," I said, "if you're to be the passenger 
the skipper will have to stay ashore." 

"Das too bad. Annyway I bring you a bottle of 
honey an' some Jamaica plums an' cashews." 

I stowed the bottle and the jar in exchange for which 
she very reluctantly took a shilling. She lived some- 
where up in the hills and having heard fantastic tales 
of the Yakaboo she had come down to see the canoe 
and its skipper with her offering of mountain honey 
and preserves. It was unselfish kindness on her part 
and she only took the shilling that she might buy "some 
little thing" by which to remember me. There are 
many like these in the islands, but they are scarcely 
known to the tourist — sad to relate. 

While Rebecca Cooper was silently examining the 
cmoe, I took out the clearance paper which the Col- 
lector of Customs had given me the day before. It 
read as follows: 

MONTSERRAT 

Port of PLYMOUTH. 
THESE are to certify all whom it doth concern, 
that F. A. Fenger 

master or commander of the Yakaboo 

burthen %. tons, mounted with 

guns, navigated with men 

Am. built and bound for Nevis 

having on board 

Ballast 

, & . 
Captain 

hath here entered and cleared his vessel according to 

law. Given under my hand at the Treasury, at the 

Port of Plymouth, in the Presidency of Montserrat, 



278 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

this 18th day of May, one thousand nine hun- 
dred and eleven. 

EDWARD F.DYETT, 
ist Treasury Officer. 

It was the "Ballast and Captain" that made me 
think. My outfit — not perfect as yet, but still the apple 
of my eye — was put down as "Ballast" and to add 
ignominy to slight I was put down under that as "Cap- 
tain." I dislike very much this honorary frill — Cap- 
tain — it is worse than "Colonel." 

The wind was light from the southeast and we — the 
Yakaboo and I, for we left Rebecca on the beach with 
the crowd — slipped off with eased sheets at a gentle 
gait of three miles an hour. 

The early settlers of Montserrat and Nevis were 
largely Irish. Strange to say, among the first Euro- 
peans to see the West Indies were an Englishman, 
Arthur Laws or Larkins, and an Irishman, William 
Harris of Galway, who sailed with Columbus. We 
are inclined to think that the crews of the Admiral's 
fleet were made up wholly of swarthy Portuguese, 
Spaniards, and Italians. Churchill, in speaking of 
Redonda, says that most of the inhabitants were Irish 
— but what they could find for existence on this almost 
barren rock with its difficult ascent it is hard to under- 
stand. It is true that Redonda proved to have a con- 
siderable commercial value, but not till 1865 when it 
was found that the rock bore a rich covering of phos- 
phate of alumina. The rock is now nearly exhausted 
of its rich deposit, but I was told in Montserrat that I 
should find a crew of negroes in charge of the com- 
pany's buildings. 



WE MAKE OUR BEST RUN 279 

One must always take the words of early explorers 
— as well as modern ones — with a grain of salt in 
regard to the wonders of nature, but when Barbot 
called Redonda a "very round island, every way per- 
pendicular so that there seemed to be no getting up 
into it without ladders," he did not exaggerate. When 
I lowered the sails of the Yakaboo under the lee of 
Redonda, I saw that the sides of the rock rose sheer 
out of the water like the Pitons of Saint Lucia, except 
for one place where a submerged ledge supported a 
few tons of broken rock which had tumbled down from 
the heights above. This could hardly be called a 
beach and it was no landing place for a boat. 

Built up from this ledge of debris was a concrete 
pier which stood some ten feet above the water and 
was surmounted by a wooden cargo boom. Anchored 
in the rock near the pier was a steel cable that ran up 
like the thread of a gigantic spider to a point some 
four hundred feet above, where I made out a sort of 
staging. Trowed close to shore and shouted, but there 
was no answer. Then, thinking that I was too far 
under the cliff, I rowed off a bit and began to fire my 
thirty-eight-forty. A voice from somewhere up there 
shouted down to me but what it said I could not under- 
stand. I located two figures busy on the staging and 
presently a miner's bucket began to slowly slide down 
the cable. There was something novel in this; sailing 
up to an immense rock in the sea, firing off a revolver 
as a signal to natives I had never seen before, and 
having a bucket lowered for me from a height of four 
hundred feet. 

While I was watching the descending bucket a boat 



280 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

with four men in it came from around the end of tht 
rock. The sea being smooth they were fishing on the 
weather side of Redonda and when they saw me they 
came post haste for they had been expecting me. They 
rowed alongside and I put aboard the duffle I should 
require for the night. Then we fastened the painter 
of the Yakaboo to a large mooring buoy used by steam- 
ers when taking on their cargo from lighters towed 
up from Montserrat when the occasion requires. I 
very carefully examined the buoy with its seven-eighths 
chain and asked the men if it would hold the canoe in 
case of a blow. 

"Shur ! an' it's th' same moorin' we use fer th' oilan' 
whin a hurricane is blowin'," said one with a brogue as 
broad as any just over from the Isle. The speaker 
was Frederick Payne, as pleasant a native as I had 
found in the islands, who if you put him in another 
room and heard him talk you would wager the soul 
of your maternal grandmother against a thrupenny bit 
was no other than a red-whiskered Irishman. 

The canoe made fast, we rowed ashore and clamb- 
ered up the iron ladder on the face of the pier. The 
boom was swung out, tackle lowered and the boat 
hoisted inboard like a piece of cargo. The bucket, 
which had come down with a load of phosphate, we 
emptied and climbed aboard for our aerial ride. The 
winch was started and we were slowly hauled up the 
cable which follows a ravine-like cleft in the rock. On 
either side was a scanty growth of scrub brush and 
cactus which seemed to grow for the sole purpose of 
giving perches to the noddies and gulls that eyed us 




3% 



THE BUCKET.' 



wSSsfc >^«~ 



WE MAKE OUR BEST RUN 281 

from a fathom's length or two with the all-seeing idle 
curiosity of a cash girl of a dull afternoon. 

Little by little the Yakaboo diminished in size till 
she looked like the weak dash of an exclamation point 
with the buoy for an overgrown period. The sea was 
sinking away from us. I took out my barometer and 
we watched the needle while it swung from "Fair" to 
"Change." Finally the needle stopped and we were 
hauled on the staging by the two sweating natives who 
had wound us up. By an easy path, we climbed three 
hundred feet more to the company's buildings. 

What an eagle's nest from which to look down upon 
a world of sea! Montserrat was a near neighbour, 
high Nevis not much farther off brought out of the 
place queer thoughts of school days when Hamilton 
was a mere bewigged effigy on the glossy page of a 
history book. What right had he to be born down 
here in the Caribbean? There was Antigua to wind- 
ward of the arc of our cruise ; what right had she and 
Nevis to know Nelson whom our young minds in- 
ferred spent his entire life at Trafalgar and the battle 
of the Nile? Edging out from the weather shoulder 
of Montserrat lay Guadeloupe in a shroud of mist as 
though keeping to herself some ferment of a modern 
Victor Hugues. But the redundant thought was al- 
ways of the riches that have been in these islands and 
the extraordinary selfishness and sordidness that have 
been the motives of nearly every act since the discovery 
of the West Indies by Columbus. 

We were too high for the glare of the sea and I 
wandered about through the whole delightful after- 
noon on the top of the rock to descend at sunset to the 



282 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

enclosed verandah of the manager's house where I 
satisfied a righteous appetite with a roasted chicken of 
Ethiopian-Irish up-bringing. 

In the morning I was lowered from this giant's 
stepping stone and was once more cockpit sailing, in a 
light breeze, for Nevis. Except for the distant sight 
of a goodly "gyaff topsail" on the first day when I 
skirted the Grenada shores, I had seen no indications 
of large sharks. What had at first been a haunting 
bugaboo had now become a forgotten possibility. We 
were approaching the banks which lie to the southward 
of Nevis and I sat on my blanket bag, bent up behind 
me like a cushioned easy-chair with a lazy-back. 

There was just enough breeze to allow me to lean 
with my elbow on the weather deck. Sharks were as 
far removed from my thoughts as the discussion of the 
Immaculate Conception — I believe I was actually de- 
ciding that my first venture upon escaping the clutches 
of the chosen few who guard our national customs 
would be a large dish of ice cream which I would eat 
so rapidly that it would chill the top of my head and 
drive from it forever the memory of the calms of 
Dominica and Guadeloupe. My mind was fondling 
this chilly thought when suddenly the flash of a yard 
of rainbow under my bows announced the arrival of a 
Dauphin, or, as they called them in the days of Labat, 
a Cock Dorade. By the shape of its square-nosed head 
I could see that it was the male of the species. I have 
often wondered whether this was not the dolphin of 
the dying colours — it surpasses even the bonito in the 
marvellous changes in its hues when expiring. 

These fish are common near the northern coast of 



WE MAKE OUR BEST RUN 283 

Martinique. Pere Labat says that in order to catch 
the dorade without bait one must troll with a fly made 
of two pigeon feathers on each side of a hook and 
smeared with dog grease. I watched him leisurely cruise 
for a while back and forth under the bow when sudden- 
ly there was a mighty swirl under the nose of the canoe 
and I saw the greyish white torpedo form of a huge 
shark heave after him. The dauphin was not to be 
caught unawares — the Lord knows how long Mr. 
Shark had been watching him from under the shadow 
of the Yakaboo — and the pair tore away through the 
sea, the shark a lagging second. After a hopeless dash 
the shark gave up the chase. 

I watched the dorsal fin make a wide circle to wind- 
ward and then coming up from astern he settled down 
for a comfortable loaf under the canoe where he could 
again lie in wait for a careless dauphin that might hap- 
pen along. I leaned over and watched him as he hung, 
indolently, just to leeward of the tip of my centerboard. 
He seemed almost as long as the Yakaboo — once when 
he drifted a little off-side, I got his measure, his length 
reaching from the forward point of the canoe's shadow 
to the upright line of the mizzen; by this he must have 
been a little over twelve feet in length. If he were not 
as "big 'roun' as a barril" he certainly would have been 
a good armful had I jumped overboard to embrace 
him, — but I had no such intention. He must have been 
too slow and ponderous to feed on such swift fish as 
the dauphin unless he caught one by surprise as he had 
tried to get this one from the shadow of the canoe.. 

No wonder these fellows become desperate at times 
and go in packs like hungry wolves to some whale pas- 



284 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

turage where they can drag down their cattle by sheer 
force of numbers after the manner of their land rela- 
tions. I had no reason to believe he would trouble me 
unless I was foolish enough to throw something over- 
board or otherwise attract his attention by leaning too 
far out to look at him. A sly peak over the edge of 
the gunwale was enough and I made that with my 
arsenal ready. What he thought this could be sailing 
so slowly above him with a belly like a fish and a fin 
that did not scull and two white wings sticking up into 
the air from its back, I don't know, for I am as yet 
unfamiliar with the working of a shark's mind. Had 
he known there was a tasty scrap (pardon this subtle 
bit of self-flattery) only three feet away should he 
choose to butt that stiff fin, his actions might have been 
different. 

I watched his wicked pig eyes but he did not seem to 
look up or take notice of the canoe. He merely hung 
there in its shadow, an almost imperceptible flexation 
of his body and a sculling of his tail being sufficient to 
move him along at three knots an hour. We were 
scarcely two miles from Redonda when he had come 
back from his dash after the dauphin and from that 
time for over ten miles, till we were well within the 
Nevis bank, he hardly varied his position a foot. I 
have somehow or other always associated the presence 
of sharks with calm weather and oily seas. The story 
books always have it so. In the West Indies the shark 
is more in evidence during the calms of the hurricane 
months than at any other time. On this account the 
French call him requien which is a corruption of 
requiem. Rocheford says, "Les Frangois & les Portu- 



WE MAKE OUR BEST RUN 885 

gais luy donnent ordinairement ce nom de Requiem, 
c'est a dire Repose, peutetre par ce qu'il a accoutume 
de paroitre lors que le terns est serain & tranquille 
. . ." (The French and the Portuguese usually call it 
Requiem, that is to say Repose, perhaps because it 
usually appears when the weather is serene and tran- 
quil.) At last he slipped away, a gruesome shape, to 
cruise about ghostlike on the shoals. I almost felt 
lonely after his departure — his absence was like that of 
a sore tooth which has been pulled out. 

The shark took with him what little wind there was 
and I rowed around the corner of Nevis to its port of 
entry, Charlestown. Nevis runs up into a single peak, 
the lower slopes sweeping down to the sea like a train 
checkered with sugar-cane plantations. The island 
seems more wind-swept than Montserrat ; it has a fresh 
atmosphere quite different from all the rest of the 
Lesser Antilles — still it is one of the oldest and was 
settled in 1608 by Englishmen from St. Kitts. To me 
there is a singular fascination in going ashore in a 
place like this and coming upon some old connection 
with the history of our own republic. I had pur- 
posely loafed on my way from Redonda so that I could 
land in the cooler part of the afternoon. As soon as 
I had shown my papers to the harbour-master, he said, 
"Can I do anything for you?" 

"Yes. Show me the birthplace of Alexander Hamil- 
ton." It was like asking for the village post-office in 
some New England seacoast town. A walk of two 
minutes along the main road brought us to the place 
where I took a photograph of a few ruined walls. 
Here I could gape and wonder like any passing tourist 



286 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

and reap what I could from my own imagination. They 
tell me that a famous writer of historical romance once 
spent a day here to absorb a "touch of local colour." 
An admirable book and written in a style which will 
bring a bit of history to many who would otherwise be 
more ignorant of the heroes of our young Republic. 
It is history with a sugar coating but the "touch," I am 
afraid, is like that artificial colouring which the tobac- 
conist gives to a meerschaum that is to become a pet. 
In all these islands there is no end of "atmosphere" to 
be easily gotten, but what of the innermost history of 
these places? 

Nevis has always been a land of sugar, open coun- 
try and fertile and in its time wondrously rich — the 
ruins of old estates like that of the Hamiltons show 
that — and in secluded places such as the little village 
of Newcastle on the windward side with its top bay, 
extremely picturesque. But in these places one must 
of necessity scratch around a bit and get under the top 
soil of things. What about the camels that were 
brought here from the East to carry cane to the mills? 
Who brought them here and when? Did the young 
Alexander know the sleepy-eyed, soft-footed beasts? 
There were one or two on the island as late as 1875 
and I talked with a lady who as a small child used to 
be frightened at their groanings as they rose, toggle- 
jointed, from the roadway beneath her window. To 
learn the intimate history of these islands one must first 
visit them for acquaintance sake and then go to Europe 
and dig up stray bits from letters and manuscripts sent 
from the islands to the old country. Of papers and 
correspondence there is very little to be found here 



WE MAKE OUR BEST RUN 287 

and it is at the other end of the old trade routes that 
one must search. 

I left Nevis on a hot calm Sunday morning for Basse 
Terre, the port of St. Kitts. The row was twelve miles 
and the calm hotter than that of Guadeloupe. There 
was no perceptible breeze, just a slow movement of 
air from the northeast — not enough to be felt — a slug- 
gish current that stranded a ponderous cloud on the 
peak of Monkey Hill, its head leaning far out over the 
Caribbean where I rowed into its shadow. When I 
was still half a mile from the town I stood up in the 
cockpit and took off my clothes. After I was thor- 
oughly cooled I enjoyed a shower bath by the simple 
expedient of holding one of my water cans over my 
head and letting the water pour down over my body. 
Then I put on my "extra" clothes. They were extra 
in that they were clean. The shirt was still a shirt, 
for there is no alternate name for that which had de- 
generated into a mere covering for one's upper half, 
but the trousers were pants. They were clean; I had 
done it myself on the deck of the Yakaboo. Some day 
when I build another canoe I shall corrugate a part of 
the forward deck so that I can cling the better to it 
when I am trying to get into the hatch in a seaway and 
also so that I can use it as a rubbing board when there 
is washing to be done. 

The shade of this cloud was something extraordi- 
nary. At first I thought there would be a heavy down- 
pour of rain but the air was too inert and the cloud 
hung undecided like most other things West Indian. 
For the first time in four months I could take off my 
hat in the daytime ! I enjoyed this shade while I could 



288 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

and I ate my luncheon, the canoe drifting slowly north- 
ward on the tide. It was just the time and the place 
for another shark and I thought of my friend of the 
Nevis bank. I saw no fish and threw out no invita- 
tions and when I had had my fill I rowed into Basse 
Terre where I was received by the fourth unofncious 
harbour-master I had yet encountered. 

But we shall not be long in St. Kitts, or Sinkitts 
as the authoress puts it by way of a little impressionist 
dab of "colour." I found some interesting old news- 
papers in the cool library of Basse Terre where I spent 
several days reading the English version of the war of 
1 8 12. "Now!" I promised myself, "I shall see some- 
thing of the island to which the Admiral gave his own 
name." But promises on a cruise like this, however, 
are not worth the wasting of a thought upon. 



CHAPTER XII 

STATIA — THE STORY OF THE SALUTE 

DON'T waste your time hare," he said in the 
swinging dialect of the northern islands, "you 
will be among your own at Statia and Saba." I had 
met this Saba man on the jetty, Captain "Ben" Hassel 
of a tidy little schooner, ex-Gloucester, and he told me 
of the Dutch islands and their people. He was my 
first breath of Saba and my nostrils smelt something 
new. 

Saba had been a love at first sight for I had already 
seen her at a distance from the deck of the steamer 
as we had passed southwards in January. The Christ- 
mas gale which had chased us down from Hatteras 
passed us on to that more frolicsome imp of Boreas, 
the squally trade on a "chyange ob de moon" day. It 
was the same Captain Ben's schooner that I had 
watched running down for the island under foresail. 
Through the long ship's telescope I had made out the 
cluster of white houses of the Windward Village, 
plastered like cassava cakes on the wall of a house, but 
as I came to know later, nestled in a shallow bowl that 
tipped towards the Atlantic. Although we were within 
the tropics, it blew down cold and blustering with an 
overcast sky more like the Baltic than the Caribbean. 
I did not then know how I should come to long for just 

289 



290 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

such an overcast sky to shut off for a few hours that 
blazing ball of fire known to us of the North as the 
smiling sun. His smile had turned into a sardonic 
grin. As Saba began to grow indistinct, the sharper 
outlines of Statia had brought me to the opposite rail 
and with hungry eyes I swept the shores which were all 
but hidden by the obstinate rain squall that had come 
down from the hills and was hanging over the cliffs 
of the Upper Town as if to rest awhile before start- 
ing on its weepy way westward to vanish later in the 
blazing calm of the Caribbean. 

And that is why you shall hear nothing of St. Kitts 
for the day after I spoke with Captain Ben, I was 
again in the Yakaboo. The offshore wind that helped 
us up the lee of St. Kitts carried with it the sweet 
rummy odour of sugar-cane that kept my thoughts back 
in the old days. Then, as we were well up the coast, 
there came another odour, a mere elusive whiff of sul- 
phur, that went again leaving a doubt as to whether it 
were real, and my thoughts were switched to the for- 
midable Brimstone Hill, now towering above us in- 
shore, shot some seven hundred feet out of the slope 
of Mount Misery by a volcanic action which had all 
but lacked the strength to blow the projectile clear of 
the land. It was the beginning of a new volcano, but 
the action had stopped with the forcing up of the mass 
of rock which now forms Brimstone Hill. On the top 
of the rock is Fort George, one of the most fascinating 
masses of semi-ruin I have ever seen. With the atmos- 
phere of the place still clinging to me I had read 
Colonel Stuart's "Reminiscences of a Soldier." He had 
spoken of Bedlam Barracks through which I had 



STATIA— THE STORY OF THE SALUTE 291 

just been wandering, in his first letter to England. 
"Bedlam Barracks, Brimstone Hill, Mount Misery," 
he said, "are not the most taking of cognomens, but 
what's in a name?" 

Until recent years there stood on Brimstone Hill 
the famous bronze cannon which bore the inscription : 

"Ram me well and load me tight, 
I'll send a ball to Statia's Height." 

The wind freshened and St. Kitts with its Mount 
Misery and Brimstone Hill was rapidly slipping by as 
I passed into the shoal channel where "Old Statia" 
stood up seven miles away. The channel was "easy" 
on this day and I could give myself up to that altogether 
delightful contemplation of the approaching island. 
Characteristic from the east and west in her similarity 
to the two-peaked back of a dromedary, Statia is more 
striking when approached from the south where the 
Atlantic on its way to the Caribbean has cut into the 
slope of the "Quille," exposing the chalky cliff known 
as the White Wall. Blue, snow-shadowed, the White 
Wall gives an impression of freshness that seemed to 
belie the weathered battery which I could begin to 
make out at its western end. Here, during the calms 
of the hurricane season, the sperm whale comes to rub 
his belly and flukes against the foot of the cliff where 
it descends into the blue waters of the channel, to 
scour away a year's growth of barnacles. 

Farther to the westward, de Windt's battery took 
form, while a thatched negro hut or two on the lower 
slopes of the "Quille" were the only evidence of human 



292 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

habitation. Behind it all, the perfect crater of the 
"Quille" rose, covered with an almost impenetrable 
tropic verdure which had flowed up the sides and 
poured into the bowl as the rain, from the time of the 
last eruption, had changed the volcanic dust into a 
moist earth of almost pre-glacial fecundity. 

We had hardly passed mid-channel, it seemed, when 
the. wind, eddying around the south end of the island, 
swept the canoe with lifted sheets past the corner of 
Gallows Bay, and I found myself bobbing up and down 
in the swell off the Lower Town of Oranje. As I 
lowered my rig and made snug, I could see below me, 
through the clear waters, what had once been a busy 
quay. The long ground swell dropping away from 
under threatened to wreck the centerboard of the Yaka- 
boo on the ruined wall of a warehouse that had once 
helped to determine the success of the American col- 
onies. On shore, an excited group of negro fishermen 
had gathered from the shadows of the broken walls to 
join the harbour-master who had lumbered from his 
hot kantoor (office) to the still hotter sands, in shirt 
and trousers — and not without an oath. 

"Watch de sea !" he yelled as half a dozen negroes 
waded in up to their waists. 

"Look shyarp ! — now!" and I ran the surf, drop- 
ping overboard into the soapy foam while the canoe 
continued on her course riding the shoulders of the 
natives to a safe harbour in the custom house. 

"Oi see you floy de Yonkee flag," he said in greeting 
as I came dripping ashore, more like a shipwrecked 
sailor than a traveller in out-of-way places. 

"Yes. My papers are in the canoe." 




THE OLD GUNS AT FORT ORANJE, ST. EUSTATIUS. THE DATE 
I780 MAY BE SEEN ON THE TRUNNION OF THE NEAREST GUN. 




> ■ • ;.;■*- -, • '• J J *. . 



THE TOMB OF ADMIRAL KRULL. 



STATIA— THE STORY OF THE SALUTE 293 

"No hurry," he returned, "the first thing we do here 
is to have a glass of rum — it is good in the tropics." 

And so I was welcomed to Statia, in the same open 
manner that the Dutch had welcomed and traded for 
centuries, and by the last of a long line of them — one 
of the old de Geneste family. 

While we were drinking our rum, the harbour-master 
seemed to suddenly remember something. Pulling me 
to the window, he pointed up to the ramparts of Fort 
Oranje hanging over us. 

"You know de story of de salute? — No? — Well, I'll 
carry you to de Gesaghebber (governor) an' to de 
Fort an' we'll find de Doctor — he can tell you better 
than I — but you can't go this way." 

Nor could I, for I had no coat but the heavy dog- 
skin sea jacket, chewed and salt begrimed and alto- 
gether too hot for the oven-heat on shore. My shirt 
of thin flannel, once a light cream colour, was now 
greased from whale oil and smoke stained from many 
a fire of rain-soaked wood. A hole in the back ex- 
posed a dark patch of skin, burned and reburned by 
the sun. My trousers were worn thin throughout their 
most vital area, the legs hanging like sections of stove 
pipe, stiff and shrunken well above my ankles with lines 
of rime showing where the last seas had swept and left 
their high water mark. My feet were bare, tanned to 
a deep coffee from continual exposure to the sun in the 
cockpit. 

The third article of my attire and the most re* 
spectable was my felt hat, stiff as to brim from the 
pelting of salt spray and misshapen as to crown from 
the constant presence of wet leaves and handkerchiefs 



294 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

inside. The world may ridicule one's clothing and 
figure, but one's hat and dog had best be left alone. 
Still I cannot say that I was ill at ease or embarrassed 
for I was entirely in keeping with my surroundings. 
Marse James' office was neat and clean to be sure, but 
outside, up and down the beach there was nothing but 
ruin and heart-sinking neglect. 

A razor, honed on the light pith of the cabbage palm, 
and a tin basin of fresh water contributed largely to 
the transformation which followed. Shoes and stock- 
ings from the hold of the canoe added their touch of 
respectability. It is remarkable what an elevating ef- 
fect is produced by a mere quarter of an inch of sole 
leather. A neat blue coat and trousers borrowed from 
the harbour-master changed this cannibal attire to that 
of civilisation. True, there was some discrepancy be- 
tween our respective waist measures, but this was taken 
care of by a judicious reef in the rear and since it is 
hardly polite to turn one's back on a governor there 
would be nothing to offend this august official. With 
the coat buttoned close under my chin so as to show the 
edge of a standing military collar there would be noth- 
ing to betray the absence of white linen beneath. 

They say that once upon a time the dignity of the 
Gesaghebber, whose authority extends over an area of 
scarcely eight square miles, was sorely tried by one of 
his own countrymen. An eminent scientist who came 
to investigate the geologic formation of the island, 
landed with much pomp and circumstance, wearing a 
frock coat and a silk hat. His degeneracy, however, 
was as the downward course of a toboggan, for only 
a few weeks later, upon his departure, he dropped in 



STATIA— THE STORY OF THE SALUTE 295 

to bid the governor good-bye, attired in pajamas, slip- 
pers and a straw hat and smoking a long pipe that 
rested on the comfortable rotundity which was all the 
more accentuated by his thin attire. 

I combed my hair and with my papers stuffed in my 
pockets set out to climb the famous Bay Path with the 
puffing de Geneste. 

Built against the cliff which it mounts to the plateau 
above in a zigzag of two flights, the Bay Path belies 
its name. It is in fact a substantial cobbled roadway 
with massive retaining walls run up to a bulwark breast 
high to keep the skidding gun carriages of the early 
days from falling upon the houses below. That it had 
been built to stand for all time was evident, but even 
as I climbed it for the first time I could see that its 
years were numbered. The insidious trickling of wa- 
ter from tropical rains had been eating the soft earth 
away from its foundations and making the work easy 
for the roaring cloud bursts which take their toll from 
the Upper Town. The bulwarks that had comforted 
the unsteady steps of the belated burgher were now 
broken out? in places and as we passed under the Do- 
minican Mission the harbour-master drew my attention 
to the work of the last cloud-burst which had bared 
the cliff to its very base. There was no busy stream of 
life up and down the wide roadway. As we stumbled 
up the uneven cobblestones we passed a lone negress 
shuffling silently in the shade of a huge bundle of 
clothes balanced on her head, down to the brackish 
pool where the washing of the town is done. Her 
passing only emphasised the forlorn loneliness of the 
hot middle day. We gained the streets of the Upper 



296 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

Town where the change from the simmering heat of 
the beach to the cool breezes of the plateau was like 
plunging into the cool catacombs from the July heat 
of Rome. 

The Gesaghebber was still enjoying his siesta, we 
were informed by the negress who came to the door. 
In the crook of her arm she carried a sweating water- 
monkey from St. Martin's. She had addressed the har- 
bour-master, but when she noticed that it was a stranger 
who stood by his side she dropped the monkey which 
broke on the flagging, trickling its cool water around 
our feet. 

"O Lard — who de mon?" she gasped. 

"Him de mon in de boat," de Geneste mimicked — 
for as such I had come to be known in the islands. 

Leaving the servant to stare after us, we retraced 
our steps to the fort which we had passed at the head 
of the Bay Path. Saluting the shrunken Dutch sentry 
who stepped out from the shadow of the Port, we 
crossed over the little bridge which spans the shal- 
low ditch and passed through to the "place d'armes" 
of Fort Oranje. 

Forming the two seaward sides of an irregular quad- 
rangle was the rampart, its guns with their hooded 
breeches pointing valiantly out over the roadstead and 
sweeping the approaches of the Bay Path. In the 
angle where the rampart turns back toward the town, 
stood the flagstaff, with topmast and cross trees, and 
stayed like a sloop, from which the red, white, and 
blue flag of Holland flapped in the trade wind. From 
just such a staff, held in that stepping before me, the 
flag of Holland had been the first of a foreign power 



STATIA— THE STORY OF THE SALUTE 297 

to dip in honour of the ensign of the infant navy of our 
Continental Congress. From this very rampart the 
first foreign salute had been delivered to our naval flag 
one hundred and thirty-five years before. Whether 
you will or not you must have a small bit of the history 
of Statia. 

From her earliest days Statia belonged to the Dutch, 
who, before the British, were masters of the sea and 
for long years were supreme in maritime commerce. 
They have always been sailors as you shall see. The 
policy of the Dutch has always been for free trade and 
by this they became rich in the West Indies. Oranje- 
town, on the lee side of the island, half on the cliff, 
half on the beach, Upper and Lower Town as it was 
called, with its open roadstead where at times two hun- 
dred trading vessels have lain at anchor, possessed no 
advantages except those of free trade. Statia became 
a port of call. When our thirteen colonies broke away 
from the mother country the old Dutch Republic sym- 
pathised with the young one and the Dutch made 
money in the commerce that followed. When the 
struggle for independence broke out Statia was one 
channel through which the colonies procured munitions 
of war. Every nation has its blackguards and it seems 
that English traders at Statia actually supplied to the 
American colonists powder and cannon balls which were 
made in England and sent to them in Statia. This 
Rodney knew and he had for a long time kept a hungry 
eye on the rich stores of Oranjetown. If he ever took 
Statia his fortunes would be recouped and — perhaps 
Marshall Biron knew this when he paid the debts of 
the old fighting roue and sent him back to London. It 



298 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

was on account of these English merchants — "vipers" 
Rodney calls them — that upon returning to the West 
Indies one of his first acts was to loot Statia. His 
most plausible excuse, however, was because here at 
Fort Oranje, on the cliff above the bay, the first foreign 
recognition was made of our naval flag. You shall 
have the story "just now," as they say in the islands. 

It was on the 16th of November, 1776, that the brig 
Andrea Doria, fourteen guns, third of our infant navy 
of five vessels, under the command of Josiah Robin- 
son, sailed into the open roadstead of St. Eustatius and 
dropped anchor almost under the guns of Fort Oranje. 
She could have borne no more fitting name than that 
of the famous townsman of Columbus, who, after driv- 
ing the French out of his own country in 1528, founded 
the republic of Genoa and with the true spirit of de- 
mocracy, refused the highest office of the grateful gov- 
ernment which he had established. The Andrea Doria 
may have attracted but little attention as she appeared 
in the offing, for in those days the two miles of road- 
stead from Gallows Bay to Interloper's Point were 
often filled with ships. But with the quick eyes of sea- 
farers the guests of Howard's Tavern had probably, 
even as she was picking out her berth, left their rum for 
the moment to have their first glimpse of a strange 
flag which they all knew must be that of the new re- 
public. 

Abraham Ravene, commandant of the fort, lowered 
the red, white, and blue flag of Holland in recognition 
of the American ship. In return, the Andrea Doria 
fired a salute. This put the commandant in a quan- 
dary. Anchored not far from the Andrea Doria, was 



STATIA— THE STORY OF THE SALUTE 299 

a British ship. The enmity of the British for Holland 
and especially against Statia was no secret. . In order 
to shift the responsibility, Ravene went to consult Jo- 
hannes de Graeff, the governor, who was at that time 
living in the hills at Concordia, his country seat. De 
Graeff had already seen the Andrea Doria, for Ravene 
met him in the streets of the Upper Town. A clever 
lawyer and a keen business man, the governor had al- 
ready made up his mind when Ravene spoke. "Two 
guns less than the national salute," was the order. And 
so we were for the first time recognised as a nation by 
this salute of eleven guns. For this act, de Graeff was 
subsequently recalled to Holland, but he was rein- 
stated as Governor of Statia and held that position 
when the island was taken by Rodney in 178 1. The 
Dutch made no apology to England. Two years after 
this salute of '76, John Paul Jones was not served so 
well at Quiberon, for the French gave him only nine 
guns, the number at that time accorded to republics. 
This, of Statia, may well stand as our first naval salute. 
Near the flag stepping was a bronze sun-dial 
mounted on a base of carved stone, its creeping shadow 
marking off the long listless days of the stagnant island 
as it had measured the too short hours of the busy 
port. It was like the tick of a colonial clock in the 
abode of the spinster remnant of a once powerful fam- 
ily. As I stood on the edge of the rampart and looked 
down on what was left of the Lower Town, it was hard 
to realise that the ruined walls below us had once held 
fortunes in merchandise and that in the empty Road 
before me had ridden ships captained by the same hard 
shrewd Yankee skippers that we still know on our own 



300 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

coast — skippers as familiar with the bay and the rum 
shops of Oranjetown as their own neat little gardens 
at home. 

Forming the two inshore sides of the quadrangle 
was a row of one-storied buildings, pierced near one 
end by the vaulted Port through which we had entered. 
The largest of these, a few steps above the southern 
end of the rampart, was built of stone. Here in the 
very room that Ravene had used as Commandant of 
the island, I gave my papers to the present officer. 
He was a new arrival from the Old Country and as 
yet knew no other language than the crackling speech 
of Holland. As he took the papers, he stepped to the 
window and his superior smile vanished when he saw 
that there was no boat lying in the Road. Marsu 
James came to my rescue in the unintelligible fusillade 
that followed. While the harbour-master unsnarled the 
tangle of red tape, I improved the opportunity to look 
about me. In his report of the military defences of 
the island in 1778, Ravene describes the building as a 
stone structure having two rooms; the first a sort of 
council chamber and the second a gun room. The lat- 
ter still contained the old gun racks which held the 
modern descendants of the old snaphaanen. He also 
mentions the barred cellar beneath, which was used as 
the criminal and civil prison. Some days afterward, 
while poking about in its musty depths, I found some 
of the old flintlocks and a pile of grape shot, rusted to 
a depth of a quarter of an inch, like those which Statia 
furnished to the needy army of Washington. There 
was still use for a jail, I found, for in one of the wooden 
shanties of that tumbledown row a negress was con- 



STATIA— THE STORY OF THE SALUTE 301 

fined awaiting transportation to the penitentiary at 
Curacao. She had an incurable mania for theft. 

My papers duly vised for Saba, we again made our 
way to the Gesaghebber. We found him, very much 
awake this time, in an animated discussion over a 
horse trade with the Medical Officer. "Frigid little 
lump of ice !" I muttered to myself at the curt nod he 
gave me. The Doctor was another sort. A Welsh- 
man by birth, an American by education, and a sailor 
by nature, I found that he had travelled widely and we 
were soon so deep in conversation that the pompous lit- 
tle governor, who knew no English, was forgotten for 
the moment. The harbour-master and the horse trade 
slipped away unnoticed. Another horse galloped in, 
the hobby of the Doctor. 

"Did you know that the original cannon used in the 
first salute to your flag are still lying in the sand where 
they have been thrown down from the ramparts of the 
fort?" 

I feigned ignorance, thus removing a dam which 
might have held back some of those interesting bits 
which so often drift out on the stream of a story, un- 
important perhaps in itself. Next to the art of sitting 
on a log, the ability to listen well is one of the crafts of 
life in the open. And then, as a diamond, in the vast 
sheet of blue mud which flows over the sorting tables 
of the Kimberley mines, is caught on the oily surface, a 
new name was spoken, that of a hero. Although I 
have since spent many hours in search of it, I have not 
found it in print. Krull — a name which goes well with 
kruit (powder) and canon, — Krull — Krut — Kah-non 



302 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

— the gallant Dutch Admiral who fell in one of the 
most heroic sea fights of his time. 

Rodney, upon the capture of Statia, learned that a 
convoy of vessels had left the island shortly before his 
arrival. They were under the protection of a lone 
Dutch man-of-war in command of Admiral Krull. In 
a letter of February 4th, 1781, to Phillip Stephens, 
Esq., Secretary to the Admiralty, he says: 

"A Dutch Convoy, consisting of 30 sail of Merchant 
Ships richly loaded, having sailed from St. Eustatius, 
under the protection of a 60 gun ship, about Thirty- 
six Hours before my arrival, I detached Captain Rey- 
nolds (later Lord Ducie) of his Majestie's ship Mon- 
arch, with the Panther and the Sybil, to pursue them as 
far as the Latitude of Bermudas, should they not in- 
tercept them before he got that length." 

The slow sailing convoy was caught and Krull com- 
manded the ships to hold their course while he waited 
to stand off the three English men-of-war. He was 
killed in the unequal fight that followed. Lord Rod- 
ney says: 

"Since my letter of the 4th instant, by the Diligence 
and Activity of Capt. Reynolds, I have the Pleasure to 
inform you that the Dutch Convoy which sailed from 
St. Eustatius before my arrival have been intercepted. 
I am sorry to acquaint their Lordships that the Dutch 
Admiral was killed in the action. Inclosed, I have the 
honour to send Captain Reynold's letter; and am, etc." 

In a letter of February 10th, he says: 

"The Admiral, who was killed in the action with the 
Monarch, has been buried with every Honour of War." 



STATIA— -THE STORY OF THE SALUTE 303 

In spite of his anger against St. Eustatius and the 
Dutch, Rodney had only admiration for the brave 
Krull. 

We made our excuses to the governor and were soon 
scrambling among the ruins of the Upper Town. A 
fascinating mixture of substantial old-world houses, 
surrounded by high walls which gave the streets the 
appearance of diked canals, of ruins and of negro 
shanties palsied by the depredations of millions of ants, 
Upper Oranjetown bore a character quite distinct from 
any of the West Indian towns of the lower islands. 
Here was no trace of a preceding French regime to 
give the houses uncomfortable familiarity with the 
streets and breed suspicion by their single entrances, 
nor did the everlasting palm thrust its inquiring trunk 
over the garden walls like the neck of a giraffe to in- 
form the humbler plants within what was going on in 
the street. It lacked the moss-stained and yellow- 
washed picturesqueness of Fort de France and St. 
George's and for that very reason the novelty of it 
was restful. Above all was the feeling that here at 
one time had existed the neat thrift of the Dutch. 
With thrift comes money and with money comes the 
Jew. One wonders how the Jew with his feline dread 
of the sea, first came to Statia, knowing the long bois- 
terous passage of those days. The reason may very 
properly have been the excellent, seamanship of the 
Dutch traders. In the early history of Cayenne we 
are led to believe that the "fifteen or twenty families of 
jews" were brought over by the Dutch. The Jew 
brings with him his religion and so we find the ruins 
of a one time rich little synagogue in one of the modest 



304. ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

side streets. Whereas the Jew brings his religion with 
him as part of his life, the Christian brings it after him 
as part of his conscience. Thus we find, not far off, the 
tower of the Reformed Church with its unroofed walls. 
The Dutch "Deformed" Church as they have called it 
ever since a hurricane swept the Upper Town. In the 
shadows of the walls the Doctor showed me a long 
line of vaults where lie the old families, de Windts, 
Heyligers, Van Mussendens and last, the almost for- 
gotten tomb of Krull, with no mark to proclaim his 
bravery to the world, and what need, for the world 
does not pass here — the dead sleep in their own com- 
pany in a miasm that seems to come up out of the 
ground and permeate the very atmosphere of the 
island. 

As in Fort de France, I became a part of the life 
of Statia; here was a place where I could live for a 
time. In six hours I had boon companions. There 
was the Doctor — he would always come first and there 
was that inimitable Dutchman, Van Musschenbroek of 
Hendrick Swaardecroonstrasse, the Hague, who had an 
income and was living in a large house in the town 
which rented at $8.00 the month and was doing — God 
knows what. His English was infinitely worse than 
my German and it was through this common medium 
that we conversed — Dutch was utterly beyond my ken. 

He used to come of a morning in his pajamas, hatted 
and with a towel on his arm and wake me for our daily 
bath. In that delicious fresh morning which follows 
the cool nights of the outer Antilles we three would 
scramble down to the Bay, the Doctor pumping the lore 
of the island into my right ear, the Dutchman rattling 



STATIA— THE STORY OF THE SALUTE 305 

off outdoor expedients into my left. He, the Dutch- 
man, was a well-built man, barrel-chested and with a 
layer of swimmer's fat, for he had once been the cham- 
pion back-stroke of Holland and a skater, and had 
geologised all over the world. 

But we'll listen to the Doctor. Our favourite walk 
was to Gallows Bay,where there was a clean sand beach. 
We walked in a past that one could almost touch. As 
we took up the Bay Path, that first morning, just be- 
low the fort where a sweet smelling grove of man- 
chioneel trees, tempting as the mangosteen of the Ma- 
lays and caustic as molten lead, made dusk of the 
morning light, the Doctor touched my arm. There 
in a shallow pit, two yards from our path, lay seven 
rusty cannon, half buried in the sand. He did not have 
>:o tell me that these were the last of the old battery of 
eleven which had belched forth their welcome to the 
Andrea Doria. Some time after the salute, the guns 
were condemned and piled up near the present Gov- 
ernment Post-Office in the fort where they remained 
till the late seventies. At that time an American 
schooner, cruising about for scrap iron, came to Statia 
to buy old cannon. The trunnions were knocked off 
so that they would roll the easier and they were thrown 
over the edge of the cliff. 

Iron cannon, as a rule, bore the date of their cast- 
ing on the ends of their trunnions whereas the bronze 
guns were dated near the breech. These bore no date, 
but they must have been old at the time of the salute. 
The schooner took four of them, but did not return for 
the rest. So these seven have remained as unmarked 



306 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

and unnoticed as the silent grave of Krull on the pla- 
teau above. 

Farther along, on our way to the bea *\ W as an im- 
mense indigo tank with its story. In «.ne ken of the 
last generation, a ship had been driven ashore in a 
southwester, the tail of a hurricane. Most of the 
crew perished in the sea, but three came safely through 
the surf when Fate decided that after all they must join 
their comrades on the other shore. They clambered 
up the broken walls only to fall into the disused tank, 
now filled with brackish water, where they drowned 
like rats in a cistern. 

Passing the walls of the last sugar refinery in opera- 
tion on the island, we came to the beach. A blue spot 
in the sand caught my eye and I picked up a slave trad- 
ing bead of the old days. It had been part of a cargo 
of a ship bound for Africa ; her hulk lay somewhere out 
there in the darker waters of Crook's reef where it had 
lain for the last century or more, sending its mute mes- 
sages ashore with each southwest gale, ground dull on 
their slow journey over the bottom of the Caribbean. 

The Bay was only habitable during the early morn- 
ing hours, before the sun got well over the cliff above. 
The rest of the day I spent on the plateau where the 
sun's heat was tempered by the trade which blew half 
a gale through the valley between the humps, a fresh 
sea wind. The active men of Statia go to sea; there 
is little agriculture besides the few acres of cotton and 
sisal that cry for the labour of picking and cutting for 
here the negro is unutterably lazy. 

I used to see from time to time a ragged old native 
whose entire day was spent sitting in a shady corner, 



STATIA— THE STORY OF THE SALUTE 307 

blinking in the sunlight like a mudplastered turtle, 
dried-caked. Some one must have fed him, but I can 
assure you C at this was not done from sunrise to sun- 
down and he* must have gone somewhere to sleep but 
during the light of day I never saw him stir. I passed 
him for the sixth time one day — I wondered what was 
going on in the pulp of that brain pan ; not conscious 
thought I was certain — when a man hailed me from the 
doorstep of what was once a prosperous burgher's 
house — a last white descendant of that very burgher. 
The excuse was a bottle of Danish beer but I read 
through that — he wanted a breath of the outside world 
and I gave him what I had. He was not a poor white 
— just another like de Geneste, left by an honourable 
old family to finish their book — their last page. He 
lived with a negress whom he extolled and not alto- 
gether in self-defence. They were married and I took 
his word for it. She was cooking and washing in the 
kitchen when I came in and at the call of her master 
brought the beer and glasses on a tray with a peculiar 
grace mixed with an air of wifely right — -there was no 
defiance in her bearing but there was that which I 
might best describe as an African comme il faut. 
There was no attempt at an introduction and she left 
us immediately to resume her labours. We sat on a 
broken sofa — they wear out and break down in Statia 
exactly as they do in some of the houses we know where 
first cost is the only cost — but here they never go to 
the woodshed. I happened to glance through an open 
doorway into what was once a drawing room and there, 
reared up like a rocking horse about to charge forward 
from its hind legs, was a barber's chair. 



308 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

"What in the name of Sin have you got that in 
there for?" 

"Oh, oy cuts hair," he answered with that soft 
weatherworn tone that belongs to Statia alone. 
Whether this hair cutting was a partial means of liveli- 
hood or merely a pastime for the accommodation of his 
friends I did not ask. I was not even inquisitive 
enough to ask how the thing came to the island. My 
host asked me if I would like to have my hair trimmed 
and I said that I should be delighted. It was like 
accepting another bottle of beer. I adjusted my bones 
to the cadaverous red upholstery that showed its stuff- 
ing while my friend tied the apron around my neck. 
He did no worse than many a country barber I have 
met and with less danger from showerings of tonics 
and laying on of salves. Instead of fetid breathings 
of Religion, Politics and League Baseball, I listened to 
tales of old Statia. Some time when I am dining out 
and find an old Statia name beside me — there are many 
in our eastern cities — I may be tempted to say, "Gra- 
cious ! are you a de ? I have had the pleasure of a 

haircut in your great grandfather's drawing room." 

It was while I was in the barber's chair that I was 
a witness to a scene that many times since has made me 
stop whatever I have been doing — and think a bit. 
A sloop was lying in the roadstead bound that eve- 
ning for Porto Rico. One of her passengers-to-be was 
the coloured son of this man, who would seek his for- 
tune in the more prosperous American island. The 
boy had been about town for a last palaver with his 
friends and now, in the late afternoon, had come to his 
home to say good-bye. He had already seen his 



STATIA— THE STORY OF THE SALUTE 309 

mother and now came in where his father was cutting 
my hair. Oh, the irony of that parting! The boy 
showed little concern — he was perhaps eighteen and 
dressed in store clothes of Yankee cut. It was the poor 
miserable father who was hurt — a white man breaking 
down over the parting with his rather indifferent col- 
oured offspring. My friend excused himself to me and 
then putting his arms around the boy's neck sobbed his 
farewell on the boy's shoulder. His was a figure equal 
to the mad woman of St. Pierre, to his last shred pa- 
ternal. I could say more but this is enough ; may I be 
forgiven this intimate picture. 

One morning the town awoke to find that a Dutch 
man-of-war was lying in the Roads and then Statia 
came to life for two days. The ship was the Utrecht, 
an armoured cruiser stationed in the West Indies. In 
the late afternoon the ship's band climbed the Bay 
Path to the fort where I listened to the concert and 
struck up an acquaintance with a Russian captain of 
marines who cared not a whit for the beauties of the 
dying day and cursed the sun for his everlasting smile 
and prayed for a day of the grey weather of the Bal- 
tic. To tell the truth I was coming to it myself. The 
next morning I saw him at play with his clumsy Dutch 
marines — they were having landing drill and a more 
cloddish lot I have never seen. They landed in three 
feet of water, mostly on all fours, from the gunwales 
of the ship's boats and one fellow — I stood and 
watched him do it — actually managed to sprawl under 
the boat and break his arm. 

The grand event of the Utrecht's visit, however, was 
on the night of the second day when a dance was given 



310 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

in the governor's house in honour of Her Majesty's 
officers. Before the dance a select few of us were in- 
vited to tea at the house of Mynheer Grube, the for- 
mer governor. I accepted the invitation, borrowed 
some clean "whites" from the Doctor, combed and 
brushed my hair, and went. 

There was something very placid and restful 
about this home of the old Dutch gentleman and his 
wife — the quiet dignity of a useful life frugally lived 
and of duties conscientiously performed. There were 
old clocks and cupboards in it and a Delft plate or two 
just as we find them in our Dutch colonial houses of 
the north. If you examine the outer walls carefully 
you will find a round place, plastered up as though at 
some time a cannon ball must have gone through. One 
did and it was not many generations ago when just such 
a quiet Hollander as Grube was living there as Gov- 
ernor. 

It was some time after the looting of Oranjetown, 
when Statia had been sucked dry by the English and 
flung back to the Dutch like a gleaned bone, that a 
French frigate in passing fired upon the Upper Town 
just to see the mortar fly. It was in the trade season 
and she bowled along, close under the lee of the island 
with her weather side exposed as if to say, "Hit me if 
you can." 

One of her shots passed through the very room in 
which the governor sat reading. His wife, — I wonder 
if she had been in the kitchen overlooking the making 
of some favourite dish? — rushed into the room and 
found her husband calmly reading with the debris of 
stone and plaster littered about him, as though noth- 



STATIA— THE STORY OF THE SALUTE 311 

ing had happened. She begged her husband in the 
name of all that was sane to move from his dangerous 
position. 

"Be calm," said the governor, "don't you know that 
cannon balls never strike again in the same place?" 

But he was not altogether right. Down on the beach, 
just beyond Interloper's Point, lay the little old battery 
of Tommelendyk — Tumble-down-Dick they call it. 
There had been but little use for the guns of late and 
there was no militaire now stationed on the island. 
There was, however, one man on Statia, a one-armed 
gunner whose blood was roused when he saw the wan- 
ton firing of the Frenchman. He was working in his 
field, not far from Tommelendyk and he remembered 
that there was still some powder and shot left in the 
magazine and that one of the guns at least was in good 
order for signalling purposes. He rushed down to the 
battery followed by his friends. 

In a twinkling the breech-hood was off and the 
gunner blew through the touch-hole to make sure that 
the passage was clear. Measuring the powder by the 
handful, he showed his friends how to ram home the 
charge and the ball. By this time the Frenchman was 
almost abreast the battery. The gunner's first shot was 
a good "liner," but fell short. He had not lost his cun- 
ning in guessing the speed of a ship. The impromptu 
crew reloaded in quick time and as they jumped clear 
of the smoke they gave a yell of delight. The shot 
had struck the Frenchman in the hull close to the water- 
line. Two more shots were planted almost in the same 
place before the frigate could clear the island. 

When she ran into the choppy seas her crew found 



312 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

that their ship was rapidly making water. They dared 
not beat to windward to St. Martin's and were forced 
to make for St. Thomas, the nearest port to leeward. 
With her guns and stores shifted to port she must have 
been a weird spectacle as she bore down on the Danish 
island, with a free wind and heeled as though she were 
beating into a gale. 

. Grube had been Governor in the same way that his 
predecessors had held office — burghers performing 
their duty to the state without political influence and 
by right of a worthy life. We had our tea and cakes 
and drank our Curasao in the short evening that 
brought with it the last music of the band at the fort. 
Then we arose and went to the house of the present 
Governor where most of the white people of Statia 
were already gathered as one huge family. The room 
was on the upper floor — there are never more than 
two in these islands — to which we gained access by an 
outside stairway, from the courtyard, a most convenient 
arrangement by which a large crowd of guests could not 
invade the privacy of the rest of the house. Most of 
the officers of the Utrecht were there and the midship- 
men — young boys such as you might meet at almost 
any dance in Edgewater or Brookline. 

It had been a long time since I had danced and I 
revelled in this party of the Governor of Statia. I 
danced with Heyligers and de Windts and Van Mus- 
sendens and no end of names that had been in the 
island long before the coming of Rodney. I danced 
with names and my spirit was in the past. The tunes 
they played were old ones, some of them English and 
some handed down from the time when the Marquis de 



STATIA-— THE STORY OF THE SALUTE 313 

Bouille made the island French for a year. There were 
quaint French themes, some of which I recognised. To 
these same tunes, in this same room, the ancestors of 
these people had danced many a time. Then the orches- 
tra switched to more modern things — "Money Musk" 
and the old sailor's delight "Champagne Charlie" 
which you will only hear in our parts in some wharf- 
side saloon, befuddled through the lips of some old rum- 
laden shellback. But withal this ancient atmosphere 
and the dire poverty of these descendants of once pros- 
perous burgher families there was no sadness at the 
Governor's that night. If these people were always 
talking of the glorious Past their introspection had not 
made them morbid. They were seafarers and their 
philosophy was a hopeful one. Here was the gather- 
ing of a congenial happy family. I have never dropped 
into a community where I felt so immediately and 
completely at home as here and at Saba. There is one 
word which applies to these people more than any other 
and that is — Goodhearted. They are not super-edu- 
cated surely but they have a far wider knowledge of 
the world in general than our average farmer com- 
munity. They retain a refinement of family which gen- 
erations of poverty have not been able to down and 
they have survived the fires of want with a spirit that 
is one of the paradoxes of the world. 

The orchestra finally reached the limit of its strength 
and stopped playing through sheer exhaustion — they 
were not professionals, just friends who were glad to 
do this service. From time to time one of the players 
would lay aside his instrument and join the dancers for 
a while till by rote each had had his share. The end- 



314 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

ing of the music seemed to be the accepted signal for 
refreshments and those who did not take up trays of 
coffee and small cakes lined up along the walls as before 
the dance. The coffee had an awakening effect but the 
dance did not continue. Presently a whisper found 
its way from mouth to ear till it reached Van Muss- 
chenbroek in a far corner. His perspiring face smiled 
assent and he stepped into the middle of the cleared 
room. In laughable broken English he announced that 
he would now delight the audience with an imitation of 
a fiddler crab. It was a clever stunt and from the way 
in which he skittered about the floor in arcs of wander- 
ing centers weaving his claws in the air, I knew that 
he knew beach life. And so the second part of the 
evening was started. There was no assumed modesty 
that needed coaxing — whoever was asked deemed it a 
pleasure to do his part of the entertaining; was this 
not a way in which he might honour the Governor and 
his wife? The midshipmen of the Utrecht entered into 
the spirit of the thing and one of them sang a Dutch 
song. Most of these chaps had been on the Utrecht 
when she attended the Hudson-Fulton celebration in 
New York and for a time we had a bit of Keith's cir- 
cuit on the boards. George M. Cohan did not sound 
a whit better than when we hear him imitated at home. 
There is a limit to all good things and these people 
live in moderation and never reach the limit — the party 
broke up when we were all happily tired. 

I became attached to Statia as I had become attached 
to Point Espagfiol and Fort de France, but I found that 
little by little my eyes sought the sea more and more. 
The channel was calling again and peaked Saba became 



STATIA— THE STORY OF THE SALUTE 315 

an aggravating invitation. With all the fascination of 
the old fort and the batteries, the stories of the priva- 
teers and the brisk companionship of the Doctor, the 
call was stronger than the present love, and so one 
morning I took to the shimmering channel and left the 
island of England's wrath for her sister where the 
Dutch rule the English. 



CHAPTER XIII 

SABA 

T) land at Saba in a small boat you must choose 
the right kind of weather. If there is no wind 
you cannot sail, if there is too much wind you cannot 
land, for the seas swinging around the island will raise 
a surf on the rocky beaches that will make a quick end 
of your boat. For a week there had been too much 
wind. One day the trade eased up a bit and de Geneste 
said, "You better make a troy in de mornin'." I made 
ready. 

The next morning seemed to promise the same kind 
of day as that on which I rushed from Guadeloupe to 
Montserrat and I feared trouble when I should reach 
Saba. The wind was already blowing a good sailing 
breeze and we took to the water at seven o'clock and 
with Saba a little north of wnw and the wind nearly 
east I sailed west for an hour wing-and-wing. Then 
I laid my course for the island. Half an hour later I 
was obliged to reef because we were making too much 
speed in the breaking seas. "A fine layout this!" I 
thought, for if I did not reach the island before the 
surf ran heavy, I had visions of joining my long painter 
to all my halyards, sheets, and spare line and swimming 
ashore with it to let the canoe tail off in the wind, 
moored to some out-jutting rock or perhaps lying off 

316 



SABA 317 

under the lee of the island for a day or two till the 
seas calmed. It was all unnecessary worry. The direct 
distance from island to island was only sixteen miles 
and I was across before the seas had grown too large. 

Saba one might call the Pico of the West Indies; 
not as high by half, but the comparison may stand for 
all that. From a diameter of two miles she rises to a 
height of nearly three thousand feet, her summit lost 
in the low-lying trade clouds which tend to accentuate 
the loftiness of this old ocean volcano. The West 
Indies pilot book gives three landing places and of 
these I was told by de Geneste to try the south side or 
Fort Landing, four cables eastward of Ladder Point. 

I knew the place when I sailed in toward the island 
for there was a little shack perched about fifty feet 
above the beach where the revenue officers, they are 
called brigadiers, sought shelter from the sun's heat. 
Above the surf a fishing boat lay on rollers across the 
rocks, for here is no sand. To the westward, like a 
terrace, under Ladder Point was a levelled cobble beach 
some twelve feet above the water where they used to 
build sloops and schooners before they found that they 
could get them better and cheaper from Gloucester. 
Winding upward in a ravine-like cleft were flights of 
steps hewn out of the solid rock and connected by 
stretches of steep pathways. 

The shack and the pathway up the ravine were the 
only signs of human habitation and from the barren 
aspect of the island with its low scrubby vegetation one 
would not suspect that the steps and paths led to the 
homes of some three thousand people. When I had 
made my rig snug and hoisted my centerboard I rowed 



318 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

as close to shore as I dared. As at Statia, a number of 
black watermen waded out into the sea to lift the canoe 
clear of the rocks. I rowed a bit to windward to coun- 
teract a strong current and then as we swept down to- 
ward the men, I jumped overboard and swimming with 
my hands on the stern of the Yakaboo I waited till we 
were opposite the men and then shoved the canoe into 
their arms. 

One of the brutes might have taken her weight on 
his head for my food bags were flat and my outfit 
thinned out, and for the crowd of them she was a mere 
toy which they lifted clear of the surf and carried 
ashore to a couple of rollers without even grazing a 
stone. The skipper, having a proper regard for his 
bones, washed himself ashore like a limp octopus. 

Now there was one person whom I came to know 
in Statia but whom I have not mentioned as yet be- 
cause our friendship really belonged to Saba and it 
was here she was buried only a few weeks after I left 
the island. She was a kindly elderly woman and a 
good friend to me. She had been head nurse at the 
Government Hospital at Antigua and had been under 
the care of the Doctor at Statia for some time. He 
suspected cancer, he told me (she told me that she knew 
it was cancer), and since he could do nothing for her, 
he advised her to go to Saba to live up in the air where 
no breeze hung about long enough to lose its freshness 
and where the chill of night brought with it sound sleep. 
She had gone on to Saba a few days after my arrival 
at Oranjetown. One afternoon when I had been com- 
plaining of dizziness and nausea the Doctor gave me 
a kindly shaking and said, "Now see here ! you yellow- 




AT THE HEAD OF THE FORT LADDER. 




HERE FREDDIE SIMMONS TEACHES EMBRYO SAILOR-MEN, STILL 
IN THEIR KNEE TROUSERS, THE USE OF THE SEXTANT AND 
CHRONOMETER." 



SABA 319 

headed Scandihoovian, you've had just a little too much 
of old Sol and we've made a little plan for you, Mrs. 
Robertson and I. When you get to Saba, you'll forget 
your 'little green tent' for a time and you'll stay with 
Mrs. Robertson till you're straightened out. Do you 
mind !" The Doctor could be a bit fierce upon occasion 
and he was a strong man who would knock you down 
as soon as not if he thought he could right matters by 
force. 

So when I picked myself up from the wet rocks and 
followed the Yakaboo up the beach I was accosted by 
a white man, one Freddie Simmons — they are for the 
most part Simmons or Hassels here and you can't go 
far wrong in calling them by one or the other name. 

He was a young man, seafaring evidently, not from 
any traditional roughness, but from an indefinable ease 
of gait, scarcely a roll, and from a way of taking in 
everything as he looked about him as though he were 
used to scanning the deck of a vessel. He had an open 
pleasant face that spoke kindly before he opened his 
mouth and mild blue eyes that could not lie. 

"My name is Simmons — they call me Freddie Sim- 
mons." He pronounced it almost like "Fraddie." 
"I'm a Freddie too," I answered as we shook hands. 
"So Mrs. Robertson said. She's breakfast waiting 
for you up at Bottom — I'll carry you there just now." 
"How the devil did she know I was coming to-day?" 
I asked. Then he told me how a man up in St. John's 
had almost looked his eyes out for a week watching 
for me and was at last rewarded by the sight of a queer 
rig that could be no other than that of "de mon in de 
boat." 



320 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

"But I'll have to stow my canoe somewhere before 
we start," I told him. 

"Oh, we'll take the canoe along," at which he nodded 
to four black giants who lifted the Yakaboo and 
started for the path — two with grass pads on their 
heads where she rested bow and stern while the others 
walked at each side like honourary pall-bearers to 
steady the load. And so we proceeded on our way, 
eight hundred feet up, to the bed of an old crater 
where the town of Bottom lies, out of sight of all who 
pass unless they travel in aeroplanes. 

Now I am going to take advantage of the fact that 
you are soft and short-winded and not used to climbing 
flights of stairs and steep paths. While you can do 
little but puff and perspire I shall tell you a little of 
this strange island. What ancient documents Saba may 
have possessed were whisked up and blown out across 
the wide seas over a century ago when a hurricane 
swept the island in 1787 and took with it almost every 
vestige of human habitation except the low-set concrete- 
covered rain tanks and the tombs of the ancestors of 
the present inhabitants. For nearly a century after 
the island was sighted by Columbus probably no Euro- 
pean picked his way up the cleft to the upper bowls of 
the island. There may have been Caribs living here 
but I have seen no mention of them. When the Dutch 
began active trading operations in the West Indies in 
the early part of the 17th century we find them (the 
Dutch) already settled in Statia and Saba. For nearly 
three-quarters of a century the island lived in peace. 
In 1665, seventy English buccaneers from the company 
of Lieutenant-Colonel Morgan who had captured 



SABA 321 

Statia, sailed over to Saba and captured the island with 
little or no resistance. The main expedition returned 
to Jamaica but a small garrison was left on each of 
the islands. Most of the Dutch inhabitants were sent 
to St. Martin's whither they returned later to Statia. 
It is from this small handful of English buccaneers 
that were left in Saba in 1665 by Morgan, that the 
present white population has descended and while Saba 
has almost continuously belonged to the Dutch except 
for a short break in 1665 and in 178 1 and also about 
1 801 it has been truly said that here the Dutch rule 
the English. There has been little marriage outside 
of the island by these English people and no mixing 
with the negroes. Saba is the only island in the West 
Indies where the whites predominate and the propor- 
tion to the blacks is two to one. But the greatest para- 
dox of all is to see here in the heights of this island, 
six degrees within the tropics, the fair skins and rosy 
cheeks whose bloom originated in old England in the 
reign of Charles the Second and has kept itself pure 
and untarnished there two and a half centuries. 

By this time you have clutched my arm and stopped 
in the pathway long enough to catch your breath and 
ask, "Yes, but what do these two thousand whites and 
one thousand negroes live on?" There is little gar- 
dening and for the most part the men of the island go 
to sea where they earn money to support their families 
and keep their tidy little homes shipshape and neatly 
painted. As I sit and write this, now that I know the 
island, I can think of no truer description than that 
given by the Abbe Raynal in 1798. "This is a steep 
rock, on the summit of which is a little ground, very 



322 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

proper for gardening. Frequent rains which do not 
lie any time on the soil, give growth to plants of an 
exquisite flavour, and cabbages of an extraordinary 
size. Fifty European families, with about one hun- 
dred and fifty slaves, here raise cotton, spin it, make 
stockings of it, and sell them to other colonies for as 
much as ten crowns (six dollars) a pair. Throughout 
America there is no blood so pure as that of Saba; the 
women there preserve a freshness of complexion, which 
is not to be found in any other of the Caribbee islands." 
The porters, before us, halted and the Yakaboo 
came to an aerial anchorage at the crest of the path 
where the mountainside seemed broken down. It was 
in reality a "V" blown out of the side of an old crater. 
No wonder the Yakaboo had come to a stop. She may 
have seen things unusual for a canoe but she had by no 
means lost her youthful interest — she was not blase. 
There, before her, spread out on the floor of an ancient 
crater, was the prettiest village imaginable. Cosy little 
homes, a New England village minus chimneys, all 
seemingly freshly painted white with green shutters and 
red roofs. To guard against the "frequent rains which 
do not lie any time on the soil" the streets were lined 
with walls, shoulder high, which were in reality dikes 
to direct the torrents which are suddenly poured into 
Bottom Town from the slopes which surround it. A 
remarkable coincidence that here, high up in the air, the 
colony should use the dikes of its mother country but 
for an entirely different reason. What struck me most 
forcibly was that while there was no hint of monotony 
the houses gave the outward appearance of a uniform 
degree of prosperity; here must be a true democracy; 



SABA 

if any man had more money than his neighbour he did 
not show it, yet there was no hint of greasy socialism, 
all of which I found true as I came to know the island. 

The Bottom, as the crater floor is called, is a circular 
plain about half a mile in diameter and surrounded on 
all sides by a steep wall, continuous except where we 
stood at the top of the path from the South Landing 
which we had just climbed and at another point on the 
west side where the rim is broken and the path called 
the Ladder descends to the West Landing. Up the 
rim on the eastern side a path zigzagged and dis- 
appeared through a notch in the outline to the Wind- 
ward Side, the village I had seen from the steamer four 
months before. Lost in the mist, the summit of the 
island towered over Bottom to the northward. 

Here was a town walled in by Nature. The cleft 
into which the path was built ended in a small ravine 
that broke into the level plain of the Bottom and it 
was across this ravine that Freddie Simmons pointed 
out the ultimate anchorage of the Yakaboo and the 
asylum of her skipper. Our procession started again — 
we stopped once or twice to meet a Simmons or a 
Hassel — to make a starboard tack along the western 
side of the ravine, a short tack to port, and we put the 
canoe down on the after deck — I should say the back 
porch — of a cool airy house where we were to keep in 
the shade for a matter of ten days. 

Here then was the end of my cruise in the Lesser 
Antilles. I had swung through the arc from Grenada 
to Saba and in the doing of it had sailed some six hun- 
dred miles. My destination was the Virgins and their 
nearest island lay a hundred and ten miles away. 



324 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

"Oh!" I thought, as I looked down at the canoe, "if I 
could only be sure that I could make you stay absolutely 
tight and be reasonably sure of the wind, I would not 
hesitate to make the run in you." Even if I did get 
her tight and encountered a calm I knew that I would 
have little chance of withstanding the heat. Mrs. Rob- 
ertson had come out to welcome me and I heard her 
step behind me. She had guessed my thoughts for as I 
turned she said, "You had better not think of it." At 
that Freddie put in his oar. "Be content, my boy; the 
boat could do it, but one day of no wind at this time of 
the year would finish you and you don't want to be 
found a babbling idiot with the gulls waiting to pick 
out your eyes." 

Sense was fighting desperately with the spirit of ad- 
venture but at last sense won out — perhaps through 
some secret understanding with cowardice. 

"Yes, I believe you're right — I'll let some other 
damn fool try it if he likes," and that ended the matter. 

It is in the evenings that one comes to know the peo- 
ple of Saba. They go quietly about their business dur- 
ing the hours of daylight and then, after supper, for 
they always eat in their own homes, they meet some 
place — it was at Mrs. Robertson's that first night — to 
thresh out the small happenings of the day. News 
from the outside world may have come by sloop or 
schooner from St. Kitts or Curagao. Then when the 
gossip begins to lag, a fiddle will mysteriously appear 
and an accordion will be dragged from under a chair 
while the room is cleared for the "Marengo" or a 
paseo from Trinidad. 

I could have no better chance to observe the "rosy 




A COZY SABA HOME. 



SABA 325 

cheeks of Saba," and to me the delight of the evening 
was to be once more among people who lacked that 
apathetic drift of the West Indies which seems to hold 
them in perpetual stagnation. The women danced to- 
gether for the most part to make up for the lack of 
men. From the very first, these people have been sea- 
faring and the few men on the island are those crippled 
by rheumatism or too old to go to sea. You will find 
Saba men all over the West Indies, captains and mates 
and crews of small trading schooners in which they are 
part owners or shareholders. They have learned the 
trick of spending less than they earn. 

Once in a conversation with the port officer of Maya- 
guez, at the mention of Saba men, he told me that their 
shore spree consisted in walking to the playa where 
they would indulge in ice cream and Porto Rican cigars. 
On one occasion a Saba foremast hand sought his ad- 
vice in regard to investing money in a certain coconut 
plantation in Porto Rico. That they are good sailor- 
men does not rest on mere fanciful sentimentalism for 
they have been brought up to it from their very boy- 
hood. 

In a little house, on the north side of the ravine 
which the Yakaboo had doubled in the forenoon, was 
a nautical school provided by a wise government. Here 
Freddie Simmons teaches embryo sailor-men, while still 
in their knee trousers, the use of the sextant and chron- 
ometer and the mathematics that go therewith. 

To me, Saba is a memory of living in a bowl over 
which the sun swung in a shortened arc. Here in Bot- 
tom Town the day was clipped by a lengthy dawn and 
a twilight. As the sun neared the rim to the westward, 



326 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

I used to stroll to the "gap" at the Ladder Landing 
to enjoy the cool of the late afternoon and watch the 
"evening set" from the shadows of the rocks. Behind 
me was twilight; on the rocks below and on the Carib- 
bean before me was yet late afternoon. 

Here was a place for a dream and a pipe of tobacco. 
I used to wonder how near Columbus had passed on his 
way to Hispaniola. Why did he give her the name of 
Saba? Was it from the Queen of Sheba or St. Sabar? 
And then when the sun had finally gone down behind 
his cloud fringe and the short twilight had been swept 
out by night, I would turn back into the dark bowl 
with its spots of square yellow lights from the win- 
dows of the Saba people. The stars seemed close here 
as though we had been pushed up to them from the 
earth. Later the moon would appear ghost-like over 
the southern rim and float through the night to the 
other side. 

One morning Captain Ben's schooner was reported 
under the lee of the island and that afternoon we car- 
ried the Yakaboo down the Ladder and put her aboard. 
She had gone across Saba. I made my last round of 
good-byes in Bottom Town and then scrambled down 
the Ladder in the hot afternoon sun. In half an hour 
a lazy breeze pushed us out into the Caribbean. Saba 
stood up bold and green in the strong light, her outline 
distinct with no cloud cap. Little by little the shadows 
in the rocks at her feet began to assert themselves, blue- 
black, while her green foliage became a cloth and lost 
its brilliancy, blue-green it was — there was distance be- 
tween us and the snug island. When the sun went down 
she was a grey-blue hump between sea and sky. 



CHAPTER XIV 

SIR FRANCIS DRAKE'S CHANNEL AND "YAKABOO" 

WE awoke with the Virgins dead ahead. We 
were approaching them as Columbus had — 
from the eastward. His course must have been more 
westerly than ours, but had he seen them first in the 
morning light as I did the effect must have been very 
nearly the same — a line of innumerable islets that 
seemed to bar our way. Herrera says, "Holding on 
their course, they saw many islands close together, that 
they seemed not to be numbered, the largest of which 
he called St. Ursula (Tortola) and the rest the Eleven 
Thousand Virgins, and then came up with another great 
one called Borriquen (the name the Indians gave it), 
but he gave it the name of St. John the Baptist, it is 
now called St. Juan de Puerto Rico." The largest 
island to windward he named Virgin Gorda — the Great 
Virgin. 

I spread my chart of the Virgins on the top of the 
cabin and tried to pick out the southern chain of islands 
that with Tortola and St John's form Sir Francis 
Drake's Channel. On the chart were various notes in 
pencil which I had gathered on my way up the Lesser 
Antilles. On the lower end of Virgin Gorda, or Penis- 
ton as it is called, a corruption of Spanish Town, I 
should find the ruins of an old Spanish copper mine and 

327 



328 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

here was that remarkable strewing of monoliths that, 
as I brought them close up with my glasses, looked for 
all the world like a ruined city, more so even than 
St. Pierre — and was called Fallen Jerusalem. 

Next in line came Ginger with a small dead sea on 
it, Cooper and Salt Islands where the wreck of the 
Rhone might be seen through the clear waters if there 
were not too much breeze. Directly on our course 
through the Salt Island passage was a little cay marked 
Dead Chest and called Duchess by the natives. Com- 
pleting the chain were Peter, and Norman, which might 
have been the Treasure Island of Stevenson. It was 
these names, Ginger, Cooper, Dead Chest, Peter, and 
Norman's that awoke the enthusiasm of Kingsley and 
from the suggestion of this Dead Chest, Stevenson 
wrote his famous, "Fifteen men on the Dead Man's 
chest, Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!" 

It was Thursday, June 22nd, the Coronation Day 
of George Fifth and Queen Mary when we dropped 
anchor in the pretty harbour of Road Town in Tor- 
tola. How ancient will it all sound should some one 
read this line a hundred years from now! I put on 
respectable dress, for I had with me my trunk which 
had followed by intermittent voyages in sloops, schoon- 
ers and coasting steamers, and from its hold I pulled 
out my shore clothes like a robin pulling worms of a 
dewy morning. Shaved and arrayed, I was taken to 
meet the Commissioner, Leslie Jarvis, who, like Whit- 
field Smith, deserves better than he has received. 

That night as I smoked a parting cigarette with the 
Commissioner on the verandah of Government House 
and feasted my eyes on Salt and Cooper and Ginger 



SIR FRANCIS DRAKE'S CHANNEL 329 

across the channel in the clear starlight, I told him that 
I should see a little of Sir Francis Drake's Channel 
before I finished my cruise at St. Thomas. 

"We are starting to-morrow in the Lady Constance 
for a round of the islands and you had better leave 
your canoe and come with us." 

"I'll go with you as far as Virgin Gorda if I may and 
leave you there." And so was my last bit of cruising 
in the West Indies planned. 

The Lady Constance is a tidy little native built sloop, 
the best I had seen in all the islands, about eighteen 
tons, used as a "Government Cruiser" to keep smug- 
gling within reasonable limits and as a means of con- 
veyance for the use of the Commissioner on his tours 
of inspection. She is also used for carrying mail to 
St. Thomas, a run of about twenty-seven miles. 

"Oh, by the way," said the commissioner, as I was 
half way down the steps, "we take the two ministers 
with us — you won't mind that?" 

"How can I?" I answered. "It's the Government's 
party and I suppose they are quite harmless." 

"Quite," came from the dark shadows of the veran- 
dah. 

In the morning, at a reasonable time, when every- 
body had enjoyed his breakfast and settled it with a 
pipe, we got aboard. The Commissioner was accom- 
panied by all the accoutrements of an expedition, guns, 
rods, a leather case with the official helmet within, and 
most important of all, innumerable gallons of pine- 
apple syrup, baskets of buns and boxes of aluminum 
coronation medals for each deserving school child in 
all the British Virgins. The Yakaboo we put aboard 



330 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

forward of the cabin trunk — the ministers brought 
with them their nightgowns and a pleasant air of 
sanctity. 

Somewhere there lurks in my mind a notion to the 
effect that professional men of religion are among sail- 
ors personae non gratae at sea. A thing may in itself 
be quite harmless and yet may bring down disaster to 
those about it. Perhaps it is just a whim of the Lord 
to test his self-proclaimed lieutenants when they venture 
into the open. There seems always to be trouble at sea 
when a minister is aboard. The harm we received was 
trifling but it was a warning. The breeze was fresh 
when we started and the Lady Constance had already 
bowed once or twice to the seas when we close-hauled 
her for the beat up the channel. Suddenly a wave 
boarded us and with an impish fit gathered the little 
deck galley in its embrace and with a hiss and a cloud 
of briny steam carried the box with its coal-pot and 
cooking dinner and swept the whole of it into the sea. 
I looked at the Commissioner and we both looked at 
the parsons. There was a warning in this. Titley, 
the big coloured skipper, felt it too and from that time 
our sailing was done with great care. So much for 
superstition, it seems to grow on me the more I have 
to do with the sea. 

The channel was full of fish, Jarvis had told me, and 
with our towbait we would take at least one fish on 
each tack. We made a good many tacks and got one 
small barracudda. Of course we knew where the 
trouble lay. We spent the night under East End where 
in the morning the Commissioner landed and put an 
official touch to the depositing of syrup and buns in 



SIR FRANCIS DRAKE'S CHANNEL 331 

sundry little dark interiors and gave out medals for out- 
ward adornment. Thus in the outermost capillaries of 
the United Kingdom was the fact of the coronation 
brought home, and, most truly is the stomach of the 
native the beginning and end, the home and the seat 
of all being. Then we slipped across to Virgin Gorda 
and a day later were in Gorda Sound, a perfect har- 
bour, large enough, some say, to hold the entire British 
Navy. 

It was from Gorda Sound that I began my little 
jaunt about the Virgins. I had been looking forward 
to sailing about in the Drake Channel, for in many 
ways it is ideal canoe water. Here is an inland sea 
with a protected beach at every hand, blow high or 
low. Columbus may have been far off when he named 
them the "Eleven Thousand," but as I sit here and 
glance at the chart I can count fifty islands with no 
difficulty, all in range of forty miles. 

The Virgins are mountainous but much lower than 
the Lesser Antilles and while they are volcanic in 
origin they do not show it in outline and must be of a 
much older formation than the lower islands. They 
are the tail end of the range which forms Cuba, San 
Domingo, and Porto Rico. 

I bade good-bye to the Lady Constance one morn- 
ing, and sailed out before her through the narrow pass 
by Mosquito Island, while they took the larger opening 
for low Anegada, which we could not see, twelve miles 
to the northeast. I hauled up along the shores of 
Virgin Gorda and made for West Bay. What a con- 
trast was this sailing to our travelling in the lower 
islands. Instead of the large capping seas of the trades 



332 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

here was an even floor merely ruffled by a tidy breeze. 
For a change it was delightful, but too much of it might 
prove tiresome and in the end we would probably be 
seeking open water again. I was soon in the bay and 
running ashore at the western end I dragged the Yaka- 
boo across the hot sands and left her under the shade 
of the thick sea grapes that form a green backing to 
the yellow beach. There is no town on Virgin Gorda, 
merely clusters of native huts that might be called set- 
tlements, the two larger having small school houses 
which are also used as churches. 

The life in these small outer cays is of a very simple 
nature. There are no plantations and the negro lives 
in a sort of Utopian way by raising a few ground pro- 
visions near his hut and when he wishes to change his 
diet he goes fishing. To obtain cash he sends his fish 
and ground provisions to the market in Tortola or St. 
Thomas and strange to say his most urgent need of cash 
is for the buying of tobacco. 

Once, during the hurricane season, it chanced that 
all the sloops were at St. Thomas when Virgin Gorda 
found that it had run out of tobacco. The sloops had 
been gone for a week and were due to return when sus- 
picious weather set in and no one dared leave port even 
for the shortest run. What with the hand to mouth 
existence these people lead and the small stock in the 
shops, there is never more than a week's supply of 
tobacco on Virgin Gorda and that notwithstanding the 
fact that the negroes here are inordinate smokers. The 
first day after the tobacco had given out was lived 
through with no great difficulty. On the second, how- 
ever, the absence of the weed began to make itself felt. 



SIR FRANCIS DRAKE'S CHANNEL 333 

The dried leaves of various bushes were tried but 
with little success. Dried grass and small pieces of 
bone were burned in pipes and finally those most hard 
pressed took to pulling the oakum out of the seams of 
an old boat that lay on the beach of West Bay. When 
day after day followed and the sloops from St. Thomas 
did not return, the whole population finally gave itself 
over to the smoking of oakum and watching for the 
return of their sloops. Even the oakum in an old 
beached fishing boat will not furnish smoking material 
for a couple of hundred natives for any great length 
of time and finally the island was quite smokeless, a 
state which to these people borders close onto starva- 
tion. 

At last the sullen threat of a hurricane passed off 
and the next day the lookout reported white sail-patches 
beating up the channel. When the sloops beat into 
West Bay late that afternoon, the whole population of 
Virgin Gorda was waiting for them. As soon as the 
boats were beached the first business of the island was 
to enjoy a good smoke. To have been there with a 
camera and to have caught the two hundred columns 
of bluish smoke drifting aslant in the light easterly 
breeze! 

In the morning I was again on the summer sea of the 
channel. We had cleared Virgin Gorda and were laz- 
ing along toward Ginger when I saw the mottled fin 
of a huge devil fish directly on our course. I was in 
no mind to dispute his way — not being familiar with 
the disposition of these large rays — -so I hauled up a 
bit and let him pass a hundred feet or so to leeward. 
I stood up and watched him as he went by and swore 



334 [ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

that some day I would harpoon just such a fellow as 
that from a whaleboat and take photographs of the 
doing. Just now I was leaving him alone. His fin, 
mottled brown and black like the rest of his upper 
surface, stood nearly three feet high and I judged his 
size to be about eighteen feet across from tip to tip. 

For my nooning, I went ashore on a little beach on 
Cooper where I built a fire in the shade of beach 
growths. The sun, it seemed, did not have the deadly 
spite in its rays as in the lower islands but this may 
have been wholly surmise on my part. It was a great 
joy to be able to do a bit of beach work — that is to 
live more on the beaches than I had been doing in the 
Windward and Leeward islands. I sat for a while 
under the small trees where the cool wind seeped 
through the shade and set myself to a real sailor's job 
of a bit of needlework on the mainsail where a batten 
had worn through its pocket. 

There is a peculiar freshness about these small cays 
that seems to do its utmost to belie any suspicion of a 
past. The beaches are shining, the sand and pebbles 
look new and in a sense perhaps they are, for one does 
not find here the thin slime on the rocks that is an ac- 
companiment of long years of near-by civilisation. 
Man befouls. The vegetation is for the most part 
new, for excepting an aged silk cotton tree, there are 
no growths of great age. The palms grow for a gen- 
eration or two and pass away. The small woody 
growths of coarse grain and spongy fiber quickly bleach 
out and rot away upon death. They almost seem to 
evaporate into the air. Here are places of quickly 
passing generations that suggest eternal youth. Were 



SIR FRANCIS DRAKE'S CHANNEL 335 

our impressions of these places not biased by brilliantly 
coloured pictures which we have seen in our youth of 
pirates and adventurers of a former age portrayed on 
brilliant white beaches with a line of azure sea and a 
touch of fresh green, we would swear that they were 
no older than a generation. But all these beaches of 
perpetual youth knew the rough-booted pirates of cen- 
turies ago and the Indians before them. Here in the 
channel between these outer cays and Tortola, three 
centuries ago, convoys of deeply laden merchant ships 
under clouds of bellying squaresails used to collect like 
strange seafowl to sail in the common strength of their 
own guns and a frigate or two for the European con- 
tinent. Drake and Morgan and Martin Frobisher, 
whom we think only as of the Arctic, and the Admiral 
William Penn knew these places as we know the en- 
virons of our own homes. 

When I had finished my sewing and had washed my 
dishes I shoved off again and in a few minutes — what 
a toy cruise ! — I was ashore on the beach of Salt island 
where a few huts flocked together under the coco-palms. 
Here I found a native by the name of William Penn. 
I asked him if he had ever heard of the old Admiral. 
Penn, he told me, was an old name in these islands, 
there having been many Williams. In all probability 
the name was first assumed by the slaves in the old days 
and then handed down from generation to generation. 

It was here, in 1867, that the Royal Mail Steamer 
Rhone was wrecked in a hurricane. William Penn 
showed me in one of the huts a gilded mirror which 
had been "dove up" and he told me that the natives 
were still diving-up various articles from the wreck- 



336 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

age. We put off in our canoes and rowed around to the 
western shore where the steamer lies in some forty feet 
of water. She must have been broken up on the rocks 
during the first onslaught of the hurricane and then 
blown out to where she now lies about two hundred 
yards from shore. The conditions were not particu- 
larly good, yet we could see what was left of her in 
large masses of wreckage literally strewn about on the 
ocean floor. 

Then I hoisted sail again and was off across the 
channel to Dead Man's Chest where I would camp for 
the night. The surf was too high, however, and I 
had to content myself with a photograph and to sail 
on to Peter where I came ashore in the cool of the 
evening on a sandy turtle beach. A native came out of 
the bush and without any word on my part immediately 
turned to and built my evening fire. There was a good 
deal of the simple coast African in him — he freely ad- 
mitted that it was curiosity that brought him to see me 
and the canoe and in return for a civil word he was only 
too glad to do what service he could. He showed the 
same pride of his village (these negroes all have a 
strong appreciation of the picturesque) that I found 
all along the lee coasts and he begged that I visit the 
snug little bay where he lived, when I set sail in the 
morning. 

The night promised clear with a small new moon 
crescent — perfect for sleeping without cover. I had 
no sooner settled myself down in my tiny habitation 
than the wind began to drop and thousands of mosqui- 
toes came out of the bush on a rampage. Instead of 
pitching my tent on the ground I ran the peak up on 



SIR FRANCIS DRAKE'S CHANNEL 337 

the mainmast which I stepped in the mizzen tube. The 
middle after-guy I ran to the foot of the mizzen mast 
which was now in the mainmast tube. The sides I 
pegged in the sand under the bilges of the canoe and in 
this way I had a roomy canoe tent which gave access 
to the forward compartment in case of rain. 

After I had rigged the tent I beat the air inside with 
a towel so that when I fastened down the mosquito 
bar there was no one inside but myself. I found, how- 
ever, that I was plenty of company. While the night 
air outside was cool enough I soon found that the heat 
from my body accumulated in the tent till I lay on my 
blankets in a bath of perspiration. A loose flap in the 
top of the tent would have taken off this warm air as 
in a tepee. Had there been one mosquito to bother 
me sleep would have been impossible. At last a gentle 
night breeze sprang up, I wiped my body dry, and 
dropped off to sleep. 

The next day was July first, the last of the cruise of 
the Yakaboo, and almost of the skipper. I was up with 
the sun — many evil days begin just that way — and off 
the beach after a hasty breakfast. My destination was 
Norman Island — I would come back to Peter again — 
where there were caves in which treasure had actually 
been found and where there was a tree with certain 
cabalistic marks which were supposed to indicate the 
presence of buried treasure. I cleared the end of the 
island and hauled up for Norman, passing close to 
Pelican Cay. Norman is a long narrow island with an 
arm that runs westward from its northern shore, form- 
ing a deep harbour which gives excellent protection 
from all quarters but northeast. 



338 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

In a rocky wall on the extreme western end of the 
island where the harbour opens out to the channel are 
two caves which can be easily seen when sailing through 
the Flanagan passage into Sir Francis Drake's Channel. 
These caves are the ordinary deep hollows one com- 
monly finds in volcanic rock formation close to the 
sea and were for years unsuspected of holding hidden 
treasure. They say that a certain black merchant of St. 
Thomas, who had literally become rich over night, 
found his money in the shape of Spanish doubloons 
from an iron chest which he dug up in the far end of 
one of the caves. The man had bought Norman, had 
spent some time there and for no apparent reason had 
suddenly become rich. One day a curious fisherman 
found the empty chest by the freshly dug hole in the 
cave and there were even a few telltale coins that had 
rolled out of range of the lantern of the man who 
dug out the treasure. And there must have been an- 
other place for one day a small schooner came down 
from the north and entered at the port of Road Town. 
She picked up a native from Salt island and one night 
she ran down to Norman's. The next morning she put 
the native ashore on his own island and sailed for parts 
unknown — as to what happened on Norman the native, 
it seems, was strangely silent. There's the whole of the 
tale except what's known by the crew of the schooner. 

As I sailed into the harbour, I saw a sandy beach 
at the far end where a small wooden jetty stood out 
in the calm water. Fringing the beach was a row of 
small cocopalms, behind which the island bowled up 
into a sort of amphitheater of scrubby hillside. What 
a place for a pirate's nest ! There is scant printed his- 



SIR FRANCIS DRAKE'S CHANNEL 339 

tory of Norman and what is written is for the most part 
in some such records as led the schooner to the island. 
I rowed in to the beach, the hill to the eastward cutting 
off all moving air so that a calm of deathly stillness 
held the head of the bay in a state of quivering heat 
waves. The low burr of wind in the upper air out- 
voiced whatever sound might have come from the surf 
on the windward side of the island. 

There was something peculiarly uncanny about the 
place which was all the more accentuated by the lonely 
jetty and a pair of pelicans that launched forth in turn 
from their perch on the gallows-like frame at its end, 
to float in large circles over the clear sandy-floored 
harbour, remounting again in lazy soft-pinioned flaps. 
They flew off as I tied up to the jetty but completed 
their circle as I stepped ashore and sat eyeing the 
Yakaboo as if detailed there on sentry duty. The heat 
was intolerable and if I were to camp on Norman I 
should have to find a cooler spot than this. 

First, however, I would hunt the pirate tree, but I 
had not gone far into the bush before I began to feel 
faint and sick. The bush was close but shaded and 
as I retraced my steps to the jetty and came out again 
into the full glare of the beach the heat came upon 
me like a blow. I needed water and I knew where 
I could get it, luke-warm, in my can in the after com- 
partment of the canoe. I tried to stoop down from 
the jetty but nearly fell off so I followed the safer plan 
of lying down on the burning boards and reaching into 
the compartment with my arms and head hanging over. 

The hatch came off easily enough and with it rose 
the hot damp odour of the heated compartment mixed 



340 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

with the smell of varnish. I took out a bag or two and 
found them covered with a sticky fluid. Then I dis- 
covered my varnish can lying on its side with its cork 
blown out, spewing its contents over all my bags. 
When I lifted my water-can it came up with heartsink- 
ing lightness. I took it up on the jetty and sat up to 
examine it. There in the bottom was a tiny rust hole 
where the water had run out. Then I lay down again 
and dabbled my fingers in half an inch of water and 
varnish in the bottom of the compartment. I had sense 
enough to know that I was pretty well gone by this 
time and I went ashore where I lay for some time under 
the shade of the young cocopalms. 

If I could only get one of those water-nuts I should 
feel much better and although the trees were young 
and the nuts hung low they were still nearly three feet 
above my reach. Perhaps I could shoot them down, so 
I went back to the canoe and got the rifle which so far 
had been of little use to me. The will of the good Lord 
was with me for I found that I could almost touch the 
nuts with the muzzle of my rifle. By resting the barrel 
upward along the trunk of the tree I could poke the 
muzzle within a few inches of the stems. Any one 
could have made the shot, but I missed because I for- 
got that the sight was raised a good half inch from the 
center of the bore. It took me some time to reason 
this out and I had to sit down for a while to recover 
from the shock of the recoil. Then the idea came to 
me. I aimed the rifle this time with its axis in line 
with the stem and pulled the trigger. Down came the 
nut and I blew off its head and drank its cool liquid. In 
like manner I shot another coconut. 



SIR FRANCIS DRAKE'S CHANNEL 341 

Stalking the fruit of a cocopalm may sound like the 
tamest of sport, but no hunting ever gave me keener 
satisfaction than shooting these two nuts in the neck. 
The milk was cool and refreshing and I believe it 
pulled me out of as tight a corner as I have ever been 
in alone. There was no one living on the island. The 
coming on of nausea and the feeling that I did not 
exactly care what happened was hideous to my better 
sense and I felt that at all costs I must make an effort 
to refresh myself and then leave the island as soon as 
possible. By sheer luck of supercaution I got into the 
canoe and untied the painter (I found it trailing in the 
water when I got out in the channel later) and then 
in one last effort of fostered strength I rowed out of 
the cove into the breeze where I quietly pulled in my 
oars and lay down. 

A little time later the quick roll of the canoe roused 
me and I found that I was clear of Norman and close 
upon Flanagan Island. The wind was cool and I 
made sail for Tortola. I was still very faint but I 
had held that mainsheet for so many miles that even 
half-insensible I could sail the Yakaboo into Road Har- 
bour — perhaps she did a little more than her half of 
the sailing. For three days I was taken care of at 
Government House and then feeling perfectly well I 
prepared to sail for St. Thomas. The anxious Com- 
missioner would not hear of this and the doctor for- 
bade me to go into the sun again, warning me to take 
the next steamer for New York. 

On the afternoon of July Fourth I was bundled 
aboard the Lady Constance, together with the Yaka- 



342 ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

boo, and in the evening we sailed into the Danish port 
of Charlotte Amalia. 

So here ends the cruise of the Yakaboo after nearly 
six months of wanderings in the out-of-the-way places 
of that arc which swings from Grenada to St. Thomas. 
Six months may seem a long time to you of the office 
who at the most can get a month of it in the woods or 
along shore, but to me these months had been so full 
of varied interest that they were a kaleidoscope of 
mental pictures and impressions, some of them sur- 
prisingly unreal, that I had gone through in weeks. 
Had it not been for the heat I should have kept on and 
cruised along Porto Rico, San Domingo, and Cuba, 
crossing the large channels by steamer if necessary. 

But it is the sun which makes impossible the true out- 
door life in these islands as we know it in the north. 
I was content with what I had seen. I did not think 
back with longing of Norman where I had failed to 
spend the days I had planned, nor of Diamond Rock 
off Martinique where I had wished to land, nor of the 
half-French, half-Dutch St. Martin's that was out of 
reach to windward, nor of Aves, the center, almost, 
from which the arc of the Caribbees is swung, for I 
decided, should the opportunity offer, I would come 
down here again in a boat large enough to sleep in off 
shore and in which I could escape the heat of the day 
at anchor in the cool spots where the down draft of 
the hills strikes the smooth waters of protected coves. 

One morning the Parima nosed her way into the 
harbour and I put off to her in a bumboat with my 
trunk and outfit aboard and the Yakaboo towing astern. 
The trunk and outfit followed me up the companionway 



SIR FRANCIS DRAKE'S CHANNEL 343 

and after a talk with the First Officer I rowed the 
Yakaboo under one of the forward booms which had 
swung out and lowered its cargo hook like a spider at 
the end of its thread. I slipped the canvas slings under 
the canoe's belly and waved for the mate to "take her 
weight." She hung even and holding on to the hook I 
yelled to the head and shoulders that stuck out over the 
rail to "Take her up !" 

" 'Take her up,' he says," came down to me and we 
began to rise slowly into the air. We were leaving the 
Caribbean for the last time together and were swung 
gently up over the rail and lowered to the deck. 

The steward led me to a stateroom that I was to 
share with an American engineer returning from Porto 
Rico. Here was one who did not know of my cruise 
and I was glad to escape a torrent of questions. He, 
the engineer, looked askance at my rough clothes and 
I chuckled to myself while he hung about the open door 
in the altogether obvious attempt to forestall any sly 
thieving on my part. I don't blame him. I shaved and 
packed my suitcase with my shore clothes and then 
hied me to the shower bath whence I emerged an ordi- 
nary person of fairly respectable aspect. 

Then some confounded maniac walked along the 
deck clanging a bell and I knew that it was the call to 
breakfast. I went below and took my seat opposite 
the engineer from Porto Rico who recognised me with 
a start. I embarked on a gastronomic cruise, making 
my departure from a steep-to grapefruit that had been 
iced and coming to a temporary anchorage off a small 
cay of shredded wheat in a sea of milk — foods of a 
remote past. I was tacking through an archipelago 



344. ALONE IN THE CARIBBEAN 

of bacon and eggs when I heard the exhaust of the 
steam winch and the grind of the anchor chain as it 
passed in over the lip of the hawse pipe, link by link. 
I had cleared the archipelago and was now in the open 
sea of my first cup of coffee and bound for a flat-topped 
island of flapjacks when I felt the throb of the pro- 
peller slowly turning over to gather the bulk under us 
into steerage way. Presently the throb settled down 
to a smooth vibration — we were under way. 

Some one at my right had been murmuring, "Please 
pass the sugar? — may I trouble you for the sugar? — I 

beg your pardon but " and I woke up and passed 

the sugar bowl. Some one else said, "I see by the 

papers " I was back in civilisation again and as 

far from the Yakaboo and the Lesser Antilles as you, 
sitting on the back of your neck in a Morris chair. 



INDEX 



Abime, U, submarine crater, 

247 

Admixture; of French with 
negro, 98, 100, 198; of 
Carib with negro, 116, 128, 
129; of Carib with Ara- 
wauk, 137; of English with 
negro, 198; of Irish with 
negro, 278, 280 

Ajoupa, 46, 150, 152 

Andrea Doria, 296-299, 305, 
306 

Antidote for snake bite, 217, 
218 

Arawauk origin of Caribs, 
137, 138 

Bags. See Oiled bags 
Balling. See Fishing 
Barber, a Dutch, 307-309 
Barbot, cited concerning man- 

chioneel trees, 77, 78; Mt. 

Pelee, 217; Redonda, 276 
Basse Terre, Guadeloupe, 

259-263 
Basse Terre, St. Kitts, 288 
Baths, Curative, 169, 170 
Bay Path, Oranjetown, 295, 

305, 306 



Beaches; typical, 77, 140, 264, 
265, 266; tetanus on, 116; 
how to walk on, 231; un- 
suitability for day camping, 
239; cobbled beach, Saba, 
317; more habitable in Vir- 
gin Islands, 332-337- See 
also Fever beaches. Surf 
on. See Surf running 

Bequia, island, 101-109, 115 

Black fin, 141-143 

Blackflsh, 101-103 

Boats; Carib canoe, 109, 126, 
127, 140, 141 ; catamaran, 
253; drogher, 28; dugouts, 
119, 157-159, 225-227, 
235; Government Cruiser, 
329 ; schooners, old 
Gloucester fishermen, 201, 
289; trading sloops, 28, 
170, 171; whale boats, 48- 
52, 73 

Bottom Town, Saba, 320, 
322-326 

Brimstone Hill, 290, 291 

Bulling. See Fishing 

Cachacrou Head, 238-247 
Calabash; for carrying water, 



345 



346 



INDEX 



131; use as safe, 131, 132; 
as shower-bath, 167; as a 
musical instrument, 205, 
206 

Calms, 113-11$, 255, 263-265, 
287 

Camels on Nevis, 286 

Cannon, Old, 96, 291, 305, 
306 

Cannouan, island, 100, 101 

Canoes ; Capt. Slocum's, 23 ; 
Carib, 109, 126, 127, 140, 
141; native, 157-159; ad- 
vantage over larger craft, 
171, 180. See also Dug- 
outs, Log 

Caribs, Black, 115-118, 128, 
129 

Caribs, Yellow; nature lore 
of boy in Grenada, 31 ; 
houses of, 46, 47, 150, 151 ; 
physical characteristics of, 
109; admixture with negro, 
116, 128, 129; camping 
with, 125-154; industry of, 
135; Arawauk origin of, 
137, 138; language of, 138, 
148, 149; custom of the 
"wake" of, 144, 145; re- 
ligion of, 145-148 
Carriacou, island, 84-93 
Cassava; drying, 100; how 

prepared, 152, 153 
Castries, 1 71-174 



Catamaran, 253 

Channel runs; among the 
Grenadines, 71-77, 101- 
103; to Saint Lucia, 155- 
161; to Martinique, 179- 
184 ; to Dominica, 234-238 ; 
to Guadeloupe, 256-259 ; to 
Monserrat, 270-274; to Re- 
donda, 278; to Nevis, 282- 
285; to St. Kitts, 287, 288; 
to St. Eustatius, 291, 292; 
to Saba, 316-318; among 
the Virgin Islands, 330-341 

Charcoal, 38 

Charts, how to carry, 82, 83 

Chateau Belaire, 119, 120, 
125 

Chocolate, native, 47, 48, 160, 

245 
Churches; at Mayero, 99; at 

Owia, 146-148; at Statia, 

304 
Churchill, cited; concerning 

Caribs, 129; Redonda, 278 
Clothing for cruise, 31, 81, 

145, 146, 263, 264, 287, 

293, 294 
Coal-pot, 38, 47 
Cocoa shop, 61 
Coconuts, jelly; how to eat, 

117. 159. 160; shooting, 

340, 34i 
Colours, tropical, 27, 28, 36, 

107, 161, 162, 225, 326 



INDEX 



347 



Cooking, manner of; on coal- 
pots, 38, 47; cassava, 152, 
153. See also Cooking out- 
fit 
Cooking outfit, 34, 37, 38, 82 
Cooper Island, 334, 335 
Coyembouc. See Calabash 
Crater; of Soufriere, Saint 
Vincent, 123, 124; of Mt. 
Pelee, 218, 219, 220; sub- 
marine, of Dominica, 247; 
the "Quille" of Statia, 291, 
292; of Saba, 320-326 
Creole, French, beauty of, in 
comparison with English 
admixture, 198 
Cuckoo mayoque, Legend of, 

168 
Currents. See Tide currents 
Customs officers. See Duanes 

Dauphin, 282, 283 

Dead Man's Chest, 328, 336 

Deshaies, Guadeloupe, 265- 
269 

Devil fish, 333, 334 

Diamond Rock; French Gui- 
ana, 55; Martinique, 182, 
183. In the Grenadines. 
See Kick 'em Jinny. 

Dikes ; in Statia, 303 ; in 
Saba, 322 

Dominica, 238-256 

Dorade. See Dauphin 



Drogher, 28 

Duanes, how to elude, 184- 

186, 208-210, 223, 224, 

228 
Dugouts, log, 119, 157-159, 

225-227, 235. See also 

Canoes, Carib 
Duquesne Point, 37-39 
"Dying" native, how to treat 

a, 256 

Easter holidays in Fort de 
France, 202-206 

Fer-de-lance. See Snakes 
Feudal government at May- 

ero, 47, 98, 99 
Fever, tropical, how to avoid, 

3i 

Fever beaches, 39, 266-269 

Fire arms, 35, 82 

Fire-flies, 232 

Fish. See Black fin; Black- 
fish; Dauphin; Devil fish; 
Fishing; Flying fish; Jack- 
fish; Million-fish; Sharks 

Fishing; bulling, 129; for 
black fin, 141-143 ; at night, 
244 

Flying fish, 181 

Food; for cruising, 34, 47, 75, 
82, 139, 160; native, 63, 
143, 152, 153, 183, 240- 



348 



INDEX 



241 ; a Sunday morning 
feast, 245 
Fort de France, 184-207 
Forts; Fort George, Grenada, 
27 ; The Vigie, Saint Lucia, 
171; Fort Rodney, Pigeon 
Island, 176, 177; H.M.S. 
Diamond Rock, 182, 183; 
Fort St. Louis, Fort de 
France, 184; Cachacrou 
Head, Dominica, 238, 239; 
Fort George, Brimstone 
Hill, 290, 291 ; Fort Or- 
anje, Statia, 296-300; Tom- 
menlendyk, Statia, 311, 
312; private, on Union, 96, 

97 
Frigate, island, 93-95 
Fruits, tropical, 117, 159, 

160, 247, 264, 265 
Fuel, 34, 38, 47, 78, 269 

Gardens, Botanical. Carria- 
cou, 89 

George V, celebration of cor- 
onation in Virgin Islands, 
328, 329-331 

Gloucester fishermen as 
island traders, 201, 289 

Goyave, Grenada, 36, 90 

Grande Riviere Point, 225- 

234 
Grenada, 26-41, 56, 58 
Grenadines, 39, 42-109 



Griffith, Dr. J. Morgan, 301, 

304-306, 315, 318 
Gros-Islet, Saint Lucia, 174- 

176 
Guadeloupe, 259-269 
Gutters ; how used by natives, 

197, 198 

Hamilton, Alexander, 285- 
286 

Heat, tropical, 116, 263, 264; 
how to avoid illness from, 
31, 36, 220, 221, 263 

Herrera, cited; concerning 
Carib language, 138; Vir- 
gin Islands, 327 

Houses; native, 28, 46, 93, 99, 
117, 246; in towns, 28, 
162, 164, 165, 188-191, 
262, 267, 303, 322; Carib, 
46, 47, 150, 151 

Hugues, Victor, 262-265 

Ice, 113, 170 

Ile-de-Caille, 40-74 

Illness, how to avoid, 31, 36, 

220, 221, 263 
Innocent, Joseph, 164-168 
Irishmen, Black, 278, 280 

Jack-fish, 47 

Jarvis, Leslie, Commissioner 

of Tortola, 328-331 
Josephine, Empress, 166, 170, 



INDEX 



349 



172, 175, 176; the native 
who had seen, 173, 174; 
statue of, 200 
Jumbies, 42, 45, 178, 242 

Kick 'Em Jinny, 55, 70-77 
Kingstown, Saint Vincent, 

110-113 
Krull, Admiral, 301-304 

Labat, Pere; country of, 222, 
223; little economies of, 
229, 230; cited concerning 
chocolate, 48; use of cala- 
bash, 131; Caribs, 138; on 
sequence of waves, 231; 
how to catch dorade, 283 

Labour problems, 86, 87, 95, 
96, 99. See also Metayer 
system; Paternal system 

Lajoblesse, 45 

Land cruise, A, 250-255 

Language; native, 37, 42; 
Carib, 138, 148, 149 

Layou, Saint Vincent, 116- 
118 

"Little Yakaboo," 117, 118 

Mabouya, island, 77-84 
Madras, how worn, 198 
Manchioneel trees, 77, 78, 305 
Manicou, 47 

Mansanilla trees. See Man- 
chioneel trees 



Martinique, 56, 184-234 
Mascot of the Yakaboo, 70, 

84, 92, 93 
Matches, how to carry, 80 
Mayero, island, 47, 98-100 
Merry-go-round, 204-206 
Metayer system, 99 
Million-fish, 87 
Monserrat, 272-278 
Moon, influence of, on tide 

and weather, 31, 42, 44, 72, 

92 
Moonlight; beauty of, 103, 

107; St. Pierre by, 214-216 
Mosquitoes; extermination by 

million-fish of, 87; yellow 

fever, 177; on beach, 336, 

337 
Mouchicarri, variations of 

name, 55 
Music, native, 48, 145, 148, 

204-206, 268 

Names of islands, origin of, 

44, 55, 56, 276, 327, 328 
Natives; nature lore of, 31, 

72, 168; curiosity of, 32, 
37, 100, 104, 105, 109, no, 
117, 135, 163, 241; patois, 
37, 42; superstitions of, 42, 

45, 48, 56, 90-92, 100, 101, 
108, 109, 135, 178, 242; 
carelessness at sea of, 43, 97, 
275; yellow streak in, 43, 



350 



INDEX 



65; easy philosophy of, 54, 
97; desire to be considered 
"white," 86 ; laziness of, 86, 
306, 307; respect for law 
of, 86, 99; officiousness of, 
89, 184-186, 247, 248; 
primitive undress of, 94; 
religion of, 99, 146-148; 
how to drive away, 100, 
1 01 ; fondness for gold- 
rimmed glasses, in; pride 
in villages of, 116, 227, 245- 
247, 336; unwillingness to 
serve, 120-125 ; medical lore 
of, 136; remarkable mem- 
ory of, 173, 174; range of 
conversation of, 197, 198; 
use of gutters by, 197, 198; 
industry of French, 199; 
games of, 203-204; music 
of, 48, 145, 148, 204-206, 
268; how to treat "dying," 
256; apathy of, 260, 266; 
simple life of, 332. See also 
Caribs, Black; Caribs, Yel- 
low; Irishmen, Black; Ne- 
gro; Whalers, etc. 
Nautical instruments, 35, 

82 
Nautical School, Saba, 325 
Negro admixture; with 
French, 98, 100, 198, 199; 
with Caribs, 116, 128, 129; 



with English, 198; with 

Irish, 278, 280. 
Nevis, 285-287 
Norman Island, 337-341 

Oiled bags, 34, 37, 78, 81, 83 
Oranjetown, St. Eustatius, 

292-315 
Outfit, 34, 35, 37, 38, 78-83 
Owia Bay, Saint Vincent, 132, 

146-148 

Paternal system, 88 

Pelee, Mt. ; eruption of, 127, 

210-213; ascent of, 216- 

220; beauty of, 224, 225, 

229. 
Peter Island, 336, 337 
Petit Martinique, 56 
Phosphate of alumina on Re- 

donda, 278 
Photographic outfit, 34, 35, 

82 
Photography, 112, 113, 196 
Pigeon Island, 176-179 
Pirates, 28, 328, 335"338 
Pitons, The, 161 
Point Espagnol, 134-154 
Police Stations, hospitality of, 

36, 41, 120, 174, 175, 267- 

269 
Porpoises, 1 01 -103 
Ports of entry, difficulties with 

officials; in Soufriere, Saint 



INDEX 



351 



Lucia, 162-164; in Fort de 

France, 184-187, 197; in 

Roseau, Dominica, 247-250. 

See also Duanes. 
Priest, A, who hoodwinked 

his congregation, 90, 91 ; 

who coasted on a coffin, 91, 

92 
Priestess of Mayero, 99 

Rallet, Pere Labat's sexton, 
230 

Raynal, Abbe, cited concern- 
ing Saba, 321, 322 

Redonda, 275-282 

Religion; native, 99, 203; 
Carib, 144-148 

Remaud, Pere, 174-176 

Rhone, wreck of R.M.S., 335, 
336 

Richaud, M., 186-193 

Rocheford, cited, concerning 
sharks, 284, 285 

Rodney, Admiral; in the Bat- 
tle of the Saints, 176, 177, 
257-259; at Statia, 296-299 

Roseau, 247-252 

Rosinante, a sorry steed, 250- 
255 

Saba, 289, 316-326 
St. Eustatius, 290, 291-315 
St. George's, Grenada, 26-35 
Saint-Hilaire, Jane-Rose de, 



priestess of Mayero, 47, 98- 
100 

St. Kitts, 288-291 

Saint Lucia, 161-179 

St. Pierre, 208-222 

Saint Vincent, 56, 1 10-155 

Saints, The, 257, 259; the 
Battle of, 176, 177, 257-259 

Salt Island, 335, 336 

Salute, The first to the Amer- 
ican naval flag, 296-299, 
305, 306 

Sandy Bay, Saint Vincent, 
132, 134, 139, HO 

Sauteurs, Grenada, 40, 41, 61- 

64 

School, native, 147 
Schooners, trading, 201, 289 
Scott's Head. See Cachacrou 

Head 
Sea eggs, 119, 121, 125, 126; 

how to extract, 136-139 
Share system. See Metayer 

system 
Sharks, 30, 55, 101, 102, 282- 

285 ; how to avoid, 31, 183 ; 

Rocheford, cited, 284, 285 
Slave trading beads, 306 
Sleeping on board, 33, 80, 81, 

104, 243, 336, 337 
Sleeping outfit, 34, 81 
Slocum, Captain Joshua, 22 
Sloops, trading, 28, 275; ad- 



352 



INDEX 



vantage of canoe over, 171, 

180 
Smith, Whitfield, Commis- 
sioner of Carriacou, 85-93 
Snakes; fer-de-lance, 122, 

224; antidote for bites, 217, 

218 
Soap, natural, 169 
Soccer, as played in Fort de 

France, 203, 204 
Social life of Dutch ; at Statia, 

309, 310, 312-314; at Saba, 

324, 325 
Soufriere, Saint Lucia, 161- 

170 
Soufriere, Saint Vincent, 119- 

125; eruption of, 127-129 
Spirits feared by natives; 

Jumbies, 42, 45, 178, 242; 

Lajoblesse, 45 
Squalls, how the C a r i b s 

weather, 142, 143 
Statia. See St. Eustatius 
Sugar, Muscovado, 47 
Sulphur mining, 169 
Sun, protection against, 31, 94, 

116, 263, 264 
Surf running, 40, 132, 140, 

225-227, 233, 234, 292, 

317, 3i8 
Swizzles, 113 

Tangalanga Point, 39, 40 
Tantes, Les, 71, 76 



Taxation, petty, 253 

Tent; Comstock, 34, 80, 104; 
use for sleeping on board 
canoe, 81, 104, 336, 337; 
native, 178 

Tetanus on beaches, 116 

Theodorini, Dr., optometrist, 
in, 112 

"Tide, Spinning," 127 

Tide currents, 30, 31, 42-44, 
56, 71-74 

Tobacco; Tabac de Mar- 
tinique, 192, 193; famine 
on Virgin Gorda, 332, 333 

Tommelendyk, Battery of, 
Statia, 310-312 

Toucari Bay, Dominica, 255, 
256 

Trade-clouds, 27, 103, 122, 
272, 273, 287 

Trade-wind, 24, 26, 29-31, 
41-44, 7li 92, 123, 124, 
139, 155, 180, 181, 270, 
271 

Try works, 45, 109 

Union Island, 88, 93-100 
Union Sportive Martiniquaise 

et Touring Club Antillais, 

200-202, 203, 204 

Ventine, Saint Lucia, 167-169 

Vigie, The, Gibraltar of the 

British West Indies, 171 



INDEX 



353 



Virgin Gorda, 332, 333 
Virgin Islands, 327-341 ; Her- 
rera cited, 327 

Waddy, M., 200-202, 222, 

225-235 
"Wake," A Carib, 144, 145 
Wallace, "Old Bill," 105-107 
Wallibu Dry River, 120, 121 
Water; how to drink, 31 ; for 
cruising, 34, 82; jelly coco- 
nuts instead of, 117, 159, 
160, 340, 341 ; how to carry 
in a calabash, 131 
Water-nuts. See Coconuts, 

jelly 
Weather, influenced by the 
moon, 31, 42-44. 72, 92, 
178, 271 
West Indies, scraps of history 
of; origin of Black Caribs 
of Bequia, 115, 116; erup- 
tion of Soufriere, Saint Vin- 
cent, 127-129; eruption of 
Mt. Pelee, 127, 210-213; 
Battle of the Saints, 176- 
177, 257-259; H.M. S. Dia- 
mond Rock, 182-183; 
French capture Cachacrou 
Head, 238 ; Alexander 
Hamilton, 285, 286 ; at Sta- 
tia, the story of the first 
salute, 296-299 ; Admiral 



Krull, 301-303; one-armed 
gunner drives off French, 
310-312; Saba, 320-322; 
early explorers and pirates 
in the Virgin Islands, 335 

Whale boat, 48-52, 73 

Whale meat, a native del- 
icacy, 63, 64 

Whalers; at lle-de-Caille, 42- 
75; at Pigeon Island, 176- 
179; Yankee, 253 

Whales; humpback, 43, 44, 
50-54, 56-69; sperm, 44; 
how they scour off barna- 
cles, 291 ; harpooning, 49- 
54, 57, 65-68; singing of, 
53 ; cutting in, 62, 63 

Whaling, 42-69 

White Wall, The, Statia, 291 

Wind. See Trade-wind 

Woolworth, Captain, cited 
concerning influence of 
moon on weather, 92 

Yakaboo; meaning of, 23 ; de- 
scription of, 24, 32-35, 36- 
38, 83, 113, H4> 156, 157, 
234-236; sense of compan- 
ionship with, 35, 36, 104; 
advantage over larger craft, 
171, 180; speed on best run, 
274 



.-> 



Patente De Sante. 



No 



:M 



Agence Consulaire de France a Roseau, Dominique. 



,,ort de y^^^T^—^^. 






Nous, LOUIS ALEXANDRE GIRAUD, Agent Consulaire de France a 
Roseau, certifionsquele bailment ci-apresde'sign^ part deceport dans les conditions 
suivantcs, dument constatees : — 

/Lf/a s4&*t sft-t)-?) ' E ,at sunitaiie da navire. 

Nom de b&tiroenl^^^^^T^^^^ 

Nature de bailment ^ C£st£sO <J 

Pa»i)lon tZ^&U&^uie, 

Tooneaux f ' 

Canons 

Appai tenant au 

Destination 

Nom de capital ne 

NomderoeVlecin.... 

Equipage (tout compi is; 

Passage r 

Cargaison. 



Malades & boid . 



&C4sCJ3-tUsis£ 



y^ 




Ecat hygienique de l'equipage/i (coucbage 
vSttomeuU, etc.) 



Etui hygienique des uissagers. 



Vivres et appiovisjprfneinents diver*. 



Eau 



Nous certifions, en outre, que l'e at saniiaire dupays eideses environs est satisfais- 
ant et qu'il n'y regne aucune maladie epidemique ou contagieuse. 
En foi de quoi, nous avons delivre la presente patente, aRoseau le ^X/ < ~) du 

mois de 




I 



